


For Everything That It's Worth

by doctor_jasley



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Multi, OC Character Death, Polyamory, Spies, action movie depictions of violence science and computer technology, kidnapping of background characters, shadowy anti-non-governmental terrorist organizations, shadowy non-government spy institutions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2032080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_jasley/pseuds/doctor_jasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank, Gabe, and Brendon have settled into being the Department’s Search and Rescue crew with ease. It’s an adventure they navigate on the days they’re not busy dealing with disgruntled Lab technicians and the daily grind of working for a covert agency. Gabe has a life he enjoys and a private relationship he couldn’t be happier with. </p><p>That’s all well and good until S&R ends up with a fourth member. One who has his own issues and baggage. Spencer’s not horrible, if maybe a bit too attached to his Department manual. But eventually they’ll break him of that. Maybe. If something irreversible doesn’t happen first.</p><p>Part three of a series/collection. Follows <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/856838">Never Wanted to Save the World</a>, and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/936346">Tarnished  Gold Standard</a>, but can be read as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Everything That It's Worth

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [BBB 2014](www.bandombigbang.dreamwith.org)
> 
> As always, Bootson is the BEST beta/friend a person could ask for. For a more indepth A/N you can find it [here](http://doctor-jasley.dreamwidth.org/85511.html)
> 
> sunraindownonme made super excellent art. You guys can find it [here](http://sunraindownonme.livejournal.com/5254.html)
> 
> Morganya continues to be the best mixer ever. You can find her mix [International Professionals](http://morganya.dreamwidth.org/183169.html) at the link.

A key slides into the front door’s lock while Gabe’s rearranging shoes by color next to the door - how Brendon’s been able to leave three pairs of Converse without leaving barefoot when he and Frank visit is a mystery of the universe. Gabe abandons Frank’s black and yellow DC’s to press against the wall, careful not to cast a shadow or knock into the shoes. The last fucking thing he needs is to make a racket, giving away his position. 

The sound of the key is light, a tiny scrape of metal and a faint tumble as the lock gives. It’s only vaguely comforting. Anyone could have pretended to be maintenance and stolen his apartment key to make a copy or nicked the actual spare from the main office. Gabe takes a steadying breath to center himself for when the deadbolt is thrown. 

There is no time for outside thought. No time to contemplate _whys_.

Until, there’s the slight sound of cloth scrunching against skin as one of the shadows at the bottom of the door shifts. Perhaps, half of this duo was tired of the wait and pushed the other out of the way. It’s an advantage Gabe _will_ take. 

“Mother _fucker_. I don’t need help unlocking a goddamned door.” Frank’s voice comes as a shock. 

Gabe silently slides out his cell. His display only reads one P.M. The guys weren’t supposed to be back until late evening. They had errands to run and chores to do at their _own_ apartment.

Maybe Gabe should have listened to Brendon when he prodded for Gabe’s phone after they got in last night - a brief interlude as a surge rerouter could have fucked with the cell’s internal workings. However, they were all exhausted, bruised, and wanted to sleep. The last damn thing Gabe was thinking about was having his phone fixed, especially when it seemed to be functioning _fine_. 

“I’m telling you, we _should_ knock first.”

Frank huffs heavily at Brendon’s suggestion. “Why the fucking hell _should_ we knock when we have a key? Gabe fucking _knows_ we are coming back. It’s four-forty-five. I’m more surprised that he hasn’t called to mother hen yet than worrying if we’ll wake him from a nap.”

Gabe has half a mind to see if his phone _can_ call out, if only to freak Frank the fuck out when his phone buzzes. It’s tempting.

Brendon sighs, dramatically. 

“Seriously, Frank? _Seriously?_ You almost bashed a hole in the kitchen wall with the broom when I dropped the sound modifier I was packing. If you hadn’t slipped and fallen on your ass, we’d be having to patch that shit. I _hate_ when we go to the hardware store for legitimate, non-work, purposes.”

A beat later there’s a knock.

Gabe throws the deadbolt before thinking and opens the door. It’s glaringly obvious that he was listening in on the conversation. He finds he doesn’t care. It’s actually comforting to know that he isn’t the only one jumpy after their last mission.

“You better be fucking glad I wasn’t sleeping, Frankie. You’re fucking loud as shit. Come on in, I don’t need front door ornamentation. No matter how adorable you two are as little gnomes.”

Frank growls as he shoves past Gabe, a backpack dropped near the door leaving him with only a plastic bag from the local grocer Gabe likes to frequent for vegan foodstuffs.

Brendon shakes his head at Frank’s grumpy disappearance into Gabe’s kitchen. He sets his own backpack next to Frank’s but hikes his messenger bag higher when he turns to shut and lock Gabe’s door.

Gabe doesn’t even have to imagine Brendon’s frown. He’s seen that look enough times that it’s extremely obvious that Brendon disdains Gabe’s lack of a thousand locks for safety purposes.

“Did Frank really almost attack the kitchen wall with a broom?” 

Gabe can’t help but ask. On one hand, the resulting mental image is hilarious. But on the other, it’s sombering to realize that he’s not the only one still riding the tense, adrenaline high of breaking out of a makeshift prison, objective completed, successful. Stupid fucking underground organizations shouldn’t _already_ be out for their blood, but … there it is. 

Another danger to add to the daily mix. As Frank would say: _fucking joys_.

Brendon nods after the door’s properly locked. “You okay?” He says as he bounces up to wrap his arms around Gabe’s neck.

“Yeah.”

It isn’t a lie, even though Gabe should be the one asking Brendon that question. Not the other way around. 

Brendon tugs Gabe into a quick kiss before letting go and smiling.

“Wanna help me make pizza while Frank picks a movie? I, apparently, forfeited my turn when I couldn’t stop snickering at his misfortune over getting a face full of broom bristles when he fell.”

Gabe laughs and yells back into the kitchen “Frank, I didn’t know brooms were a turn-on for your midget ass. Should I move mine to the bedroom for better access?”

An acute, angry “Fuck You, Saporta!” barrels out from the kitchen right before Frank stalks into the living room.

He goes up to Brendon and shoves his hand into Brendon’s jacket pocket to retrieve a thumb drive before pivoting so he can snag Gabe’s shirt collar to drag him into a quick, yet biting, kiss.

When he goes to pull away, he whispers against Gabe’s lips “That has nothing on Brendon’s fetish with fresh sponges.”

Brendon makes this ridiculously squeaky, unhappy sound. “Hey, fuck you, asshole. You promised you wouldn’t make it a _thing_. Plus, you liked it just as much that one time we filled the kitchen sink with soapy water.”

Frank tugs Brendon into a kiss just as bitey. “I did. Haven’t forgotten that or the fact that you promised me piping hot pizza I don’t have to fucking touch until it’s done if I bought supplies and put them up. Hop to it, Cottontail. I completed my half of the task. Your turn.”

Brendon pinches Frank’s arm and dodges the swat aimed at him while reaching out to clasp Gabe’s hand in one swift move before spinning and sprinting toward the kitchen with Gabe following in his wake, laughing his ass off over the whole situation.

The moment they’re ensconced in the kitchen, Gabe backs Brendon up against the fridge so he can slow his boyfriend down. 

“Cottontail?” 

Brendon rolls his eyes. “Frankie thinks he’s being funny calling me a blasted rabbit because I bounce like one. Which is crap seeing as he’s the short, hot-tempered hare in this equation. I’m the monkey, always in everything.”

“What am I?” 

Gabe boops Brendon’s nose and gets a happy puff of laughter after Brendon tries and fails to bite his finger.

“Giraffe.”

Which is a fair assessment. Gabe _is_ tall as fuck _and_ he wouldn’t mind the yellow-brown fur scheme as long as he could fuck with the saturation. A fluorescent giraffe would be hot shit in a zoo because there’s no damn way he’d survive in the wild without being a walking night-light, beacon for all the nocturnal predators.

“Why not a python or cobra?”

Brendon blinks then smiles like the cat snacking on a canary carcass. He wraps fingers around the back of Gabe’s neck to tug him down for a kiss. His other hand falls to Gabe’s waist, fitting them tightly together while one of his thighs slides up between Gabe’s legs.

“I’m amazed you didn’t ask why I didn’t choose trouser snake.”

It’s such a _bad_ line. Yet Gabe can’t find it in himself to comment.

Suddenly, there’s a loud as fuck thump as something connects with the wall. Gabe and Brendon both jump, Brendon’s hand sliding from Gabe’s hip to hang at his side.

Frank yells from the living room. “I _will_ start this fucking movie without your asses. Less foreplay and more pizza making.”

Brendon presses against the fridge. “You’re a fucking cock-blocking asshole, Frank. Blow me.”

Gabe bites his lip when Frank promptly hollers back, “Later.”

“Come on. We’ll get the pizza in the oven then we’ll go cover Frank in throw pillows.”

Fifteen minutes later, Frank splutters out from under five beige pillows and two fleece throws.

“Fuck you, assholes.” One of the throws gets tangled around Frank’s arm, and he angrily yanks it off.

Brendon ruffles Frank’s hair. “ _Later_ ” Which earns him a shove.

If Gabe doesn’t want an impromptu wrestling match on his sofa - which he doesn’t because the pizza will burn - he needs to act fast. The second there’s a gap between Frank and Brendon, Gabe drops his ass on the center cushion. Brendon crashes into Gabe’s right side and instantly settles. On the left, Frank grumbles like the cranky old man he is but also settles.

He reaches out for Gabe’s satellite remote and scrolls through the recorded, downloaded programs on Brendon’s thumb drive.

“Since you two dicks were acting like fucking bunnies, I decided we all get to suffer through one of Brendon’s shitty bootlegs that he’s failed to stop DLing. When the FEDs knock on our door, I’m _letting_ them drag your ass away.”

Frank wouldn’t do anything of that nature. Gabe knows he and Brendon would skip out to the fire escape together before one of them was carted off individually.

Brendon sticks his tongue out at Frank “You’re aiding and abetting. Unbunch your panties, Frankie, and just show us what you picked before we have to go grab the pizza for your hare-y ass.”

“I don’t know the name because there’s no menu screen and you only have it saved under ‘Possible Threesome. Will Hollywood Redeem Itself(Not)?’. I watched through the opening credits. It’s sure as fuck not porn. So I have no clue what you were thinking, B. You happen to remember?”

Brendon shrugs. “Name escapes my memory. I think we wanted to see it. Date Night in July, maybe? But we got busy. I know it’s supposed to be based on a book. Hit play and maybe we can find out.” 

Leave it to Frank to pick the only movie Brendon hasn’t found time to pre-watch. 

They pause when the pizza’s finished baking. There’s a silent conversation on if they’ll continue watching. A bloody movie at this moment in time is unsettling, but it’s alluring in a dark, mesmerizing way. It’s not like the three of them haven’t seen corpses or severed heads before. 

They’ll be able to eat without nausea settling in. Frank hits play when they’re back on the sofa with beer and pizza slices.

When the movie ends no one says anything. For a Hollywood movie with inaccuracies, it was surprisingly realistic on the gritty and dark. Gabe doesn’t know if he liked the film or not. His skin feels stretched thin. Every little noise is once again amplified. He’s aware of where the sofa pillows are on the floor, where Frank’s lone shoe is under the coffee table - the other laying near the wall from where it was thrown earlier - and a variety of other misplaced, moved, or foreign objects including Frank and Brendon’s overnight backpacks. 

Brendon clears his throat. “So that was something. Anyone else get the feeling that the end was a shared hallucination, and they died?”

Frank sets the remote down with a heavy thunk. “They were holding hands.” It’s all he says.

Brendon bolts off the sofa, slightly fidgety. He slips into the kitchen. Gabe counts seconds down in his head while Frank seems frozen in place. 

Brendon comes back balancing three tumblers of whiskey and ice. He presses one into Frank’s hand. Gabe watches as Frank’s fingers slowly curve around the glass. 

Then there’s a tumbler being nudged against Gabe’s knee. He smiles at Brendon and accepts it with a soft “Thank you.” 

The quiet continues to press in on them. Gabe sips his whiskey, listening to Frank gulp his down then slam the glass on the coffee table while Brendon does nothing more than swirl his own liquor for the longest before downing the contents in one go.

Gabe’s expecting the wince when it comes. Brendon’s a fan of beer more so than the hard spirits, but he will imbibe, occasionally.

“So …” Brendon’s voice cracks some as the silence gets to him. “Gabe, what do you want for your birthday? _Nothing_ is not an acceptable answer. We’re getting you _something_.”

What does Gabe want? Patrick and Pete usually restock his liquor cabinet. Travis buys him a box of DVD’s to plow through when he’s on leave between missions. The Ways and Toro will, no doubt, pitch in together for a conjoined birthday party for _both_ Gabe and Frank when there’s time for a proper visit. If the cake isn’t at least a three tier monstrosity with fucking _perfect_ icing that Toro spent a full off day on and the party decorations _aren’t_ a collective Autumn/Halloween theme created by Mikey and Gerard, Gabe will eat one of the ties he no longer wears.

“Move in.”

As soon as it’s said, his body begins to slowly uncoil, unconsciously relaxing. The guys might as well move in. Their things are already scattered in random places. Gabe has a line of their shoes near the door. Frank has a towel he uses when they stay the night. 

This way they wouldn’t have to bring a ready bag for sleep-overs, and instead, those could go back to being used for their original purposes. It’s not like they can’t just pretend at the office that they’re only roomies. Knowing Brendon, he’ll start referencing Avengers Tower or some nerdy bullshit to deflect asshole comments.

The more Gabe thinks about it, the more he wants this. It’s a damn oversight on all their parts that no one’s said anything yet. Thank fuck that’s being taken care of now.

Brendon rests his head on Gabe’s shoulder. “Of course we’ll move in, Jolly Green Giant, but … that’s _not_ a gift.”

Frank shoves at Gabe’s other shoulder. “Jesus Christ doing Jello shots, fucking _finally_.”

Gabe chuckles at Frank’s surliness and Brendon’s energetic agreement.

“I’ll think of something for my birthday, Bren.” 

Even if it’s something stupid like a fucking beach towel for if they ever go on vacation, Gabe will think of _something_. Right now, however, he’d rather enjoy the moment.

*~*~*~*

“On the count of three, I want everyone to make their way to the objective on their handhelds. You have one hour until you’re discovered and captured. If you trigger an alarm you will be detained if you are not quicker than the enemy stalking you. 

You’re flying blind for this session. No handler whispering in your ear. I’d advise all of you to familiarize yourselves with your handheld set ups. It will be your only source of assistance this mission. 

Anything can and will happen. You will be scored on your resilience. Good luck.

One.

Two.

Three.”

Trainer Mackenzie steps to the side, out of the way of the trainees rushing the parking deck’s basement stairwell.

Gabe watches from the bed of a late model truck as almost all the newbies completely fail to examine the exit door nor the slow beep of their handhelds that follows _directly_ after their entrance. Frank taps his fingers against the side of the truck in mild irritation. Gabe can relate. 

Only three of the newbies stopped to survey the basement level. The guy, thin and wiry, crouches behind the back of a luxury sedan to inventory his equipment satchel after scanning the lot for exits. He barely glances at Gabe and the guys, more interested in the red truck itself than the audience perched on or leaning against the only unrigged get away vehicle.

Frank makes a tiny sound of approval in the back of his throat. Gabe barely hears it but smiles in reply. It’s _always_ imperative to _have_ an exit strategy in place before going in. Any agent worth their salt knows that.

There’s a faint tap of metal on metal. The guy stiffens but doesn’t move. Gabe shifts his attention to where the sound came from. 

In the far corner, in the direct line of sight of _both_ the door and the sedan, is a platform lift parked where the lights are out. There’s a woman stretched out across the bottom of the platform, weapon weaving between hiding in the shadows and catching the faint glint of a nearby light. 

From the barely visible curve of her shoulders, Gabe assumes she was an athlete in college, possibly volleyball from the way she’s still adjusting to the weight of a pistol in her hand. It’s clear that she’s a novice, but stupid, she is not.

Gabe approves.

Brendon hops down from the roof of the truck, tablet in hand. He walks to where Gabe’s sitting and drops the device into view. The whole security feed is playing on half of the screen. The other half lists the handheld statistics of each would be spy. The names Cadbury, Wheatley, and Drew are highlighted.

“Drew synched their pads, activated the chat function and is working on shielding them from Electronic Death. She’ll have it in a minute.” His voice is a proud whisper at Gabe’s ear before it vanishes when he goes back to the cab’s roof. 

Gabe can understand that pride. When a new agent shows promise you want them to succeed. It’s not even just that. None of the other agents thought to team up. Working together _wasn’t_ banned - yet - only these three chose that option.

After two minutes tick down, Cadbury slinks from the back of the sedan, Wheatley climbs down from her perch. They’re obviously not trained completely enough to stay hidden in the shadows, but they’re swift to flank Drew.

The moment the three vanish up the stairwell, Kendra walks over, her sneakers barely making a sound. 

“Those three have been finding ways to team up since orientation. It’s a pity they won’t get to out in the field. Drew’s slated to go into Surveillance. Communications wants Cadbury because he’s cool under pressure while giving instructions. If Wheatley makes it to the finish, she’ll be slated for International Operations. They’re _not_ our most promising potential candidates, but it’s refreshing to see not all freshies recoiling from those with unconventional skill sets. That they’re willing to work toward the common goal.”

Frank bangs his fist against the truck. “Good to know your training goons haven’t turned _all_ the baby agents against what we represent. I hear the grapevine is whining over a labrat in the midst of fishies. Those assholes need to fucking simmer down.”

Kendra purses her lips. “If you wish to do my job for me, feel free to do your worst. Eval’s next week, isn’t it?”

Frank growls under his breath. “If it’s motherfucking sand again, I’m fucking walking out.”

“Then I’ll have no choice but to fail your eval, Iero. I don’t think you want to be grounded.” Kendra remains unruffled by Frank’s bluster.

Gabe shakes his head and reaches to his side for his coat. “I think we’re going to head out if you don’t need any more speciality traps laid out.” 

“Unless you want us to _save_ the poor damsels already trapped? Ashbee's caught in the second floor closet Gabe rigged. Connor's lost his shirt battling Frank’s smoke spitter. He’s trying to put out the resulting carpet fires with it. While Jenkins has _somehow_ found a way to accelerate the software degradation on his handheld by seventy-five percent. I don’t know if I should be _impressed_ by his apparent death touch on tech or weep over all the shit I’ll have to fix for him.” 

Brendon slides off the cab into the bed of the truck, feet thunking heavily as he lands. Gabe doesn’t have to look behind him to know B’s shrugging into his own winter coat as he ambles to the lowered tailgate. It’s all in the noises his clothing makes as he moves.

“I wouldn’t want to keep you from your own tasks. We’ll save that level of humiliation for a later session. Offer still stands, Iero. If you’re late, I’ll start marking off points for every minute that ticks by.” 

Kendra adjusts her sweatband as she walks off.

Frank scoffs. “As if I’m _ever_ fucking late for an evaluation. I swear, that woman is a fucking harpy.”

Brendon jumps out of the truck. “Come on, Frankie, it’s your own fault for baiting her. Repeatedly. You’re lucky she hasn’t face-planted you into the nearest concrete surface as often as you down her underlings. They’re only doing their jobs.”

“Doing their jobs, my ass. If they did their _jobs_ , we wouldn’t fucking have Morse asking us for directions to the employee gym. Or Finrisk wanting to know how he goes about switching his session times so he can pick his daughter up from school. A three minute conversation and a motherfucking map would have solved each issue fucking quick as lightning. Instead we get to play intermediary for the techies, IT, and labrats who ship in raw. We _already_ have a fucking job. _Two_ , if I’m not mistaken. We can’t babysit the fresh crop, as well.” 

The walk outside is as exciting as any walk can be when Gabe’s surrounded by talkative assholes with differing opinions. Brendon believes it’s their duty to make sure anyone who asks for advice gets it. Considering how divided the department is, even within the labs, no one wants to work directly with the agents, and since B and Frankie are on a team with Gabe - who’s been an agent for years - it earns them ire from all directions.

Frank’s never as generous.

“You babysat _me._ ”

Frank stops walking to stare at Brendon. “That was different.” Then he’s back to heading for the lobby, ident card out and ready for swiping.

Brendon groans unhappily, balls up his fist against his side, and thumps it against his hip once before taking a breath so he can follow after Frank.

Gabe shakes his head but doesn’t comment. He doesn’t have an opinion. Not really. It’s a moot point, if he thinks about it, all this arguing. It makes sense to have a cohesive operation. It doesn’t matter _how_ that is accomplished, as long as it is.

If Pete thinks having the technicians _and_ the agents mixing will bring about that cohesion, then Gabe isn’t going to bitch about it. 

*~*~*~*

Winter’s settled its icy grip on the outside world. Gabe takes a breath, then exhales and watches the white puffs of vapor vanish in a biting breeze. They’re holed up in a run-down motel for a few hours waiting for extraction.

Gabe’s on watch detail while Frank gets the honor of talking Agent James down from a rage-induced scheme to get back at the assholes who fucked with his mission. The guy’s fucking lucky to be alive and all he wants to do is tempt fate by tracing the motherfuckers for a little payback.

It’s petty, but Gabe understands. No one wants a black mark against them. However, this op has already gone to shit. It’s messy, and Gabe has all the reasons in the world to believe that Agent James wasn’t supposed to survive the trap he found himself in three days ago.

Search and Rescue wasn’t supposed to be called in. But here they all are.

Brendon’s keeping tabs on the motel’s front security cams with his laptop while his cell is acting as a local P.D. scanner.

There’s a thud against the door. Gabe glances up at the bright, blue sky as the arguing starts up. Again. 

He presses against the side of his comm to activate it. “How’s the area looking, B?”

There’s a tiny hiss of static before Brendon answers. “The front desk is boring. The clerk has crappy taste in daytime judges. I’m packing up. Headquarters sent a location for pickup. Frankie knows.” Brendon snickers through the link while there’s the snap of a messenger bag flap closing.

Then the comm link goes dead as a door at the end of the row of motel rooms opens. Brendon hefts his messenger bag strap up over his shoulder with one hand and pops on a pair of souvenir sunglasses with the other. 

Gabe smiles at how ridiculous his boyfriend can be. It’s thirty-three degrees outside and Brendon’s sporting clearance sunglasses purchased from the dingy gas station they stopped at this morning along with his dark, winter coat.

“Did Frank throw a shoe yet? I comm’ed them before you so he could get AJ ready. We have an hour to make it to a parking lot I mapped at forty minutes away if traffic doesn’t fuck with our wheels.” 

The door to Gabe’s left opens violently, crashing into the brickwork and cutting him off before he can reply.

Frank glares over his shoulder at Agent James. “I’m driving; Saporta and Urie can babysit your ass in the back.”

It’s Frank’s patented _I’m tired of your motherfucking shit, asshole_ tone. The one that promises retribution if his feathers are further ruffled.

Gabe drags the rental SUV’s electronic key from his pocket and tosses it over. “Be kind to her, Frank. She’s borrowed.”

Frank flips him off while lunging for the driver’s door with gusto.

“I fucking _mean_ it, Iero. You scratch the paint, and it comes out of your paycheck.”

Which is, sadly, the truth. In the past seven months they’ve racked up enough rental damage from improbable car chases that administrative had to force Pete into enforcing some form of a penalty for unneeded vehicular abuse. 

Brendon opens the back passenger door for James and waits until he’s buckled in to climb in. Gabe pops open the door behind Frank and double checks that the rest of their gear is still with them before sliding in.

The moment the door’s shut, he thumps the roof with his palm, once. Frank guns the ignition without needing to be asked. 

Agent James complains the whole way. No one else says anything. However, they _do_ make it to the Target parking lot in record time, without a patrol car tagging them for speeding. 

It’s a fucking miracle.

Gabe sighs when their unwilling cargo is passed off to other agents. Thank fuck, Adam James is now their problem, not Search and Rescue’s.

When they’re an hour away, stopped at a traffic light, Brendon unbuckles his seatbelt and crawls into the front passenger seat. After he’s settled, he leans over and presses a deliberately messy kiss against Frank’s right cheek.

“Lets drop this pretty girl off at the garage where we got her and head home. Celebrate the new year properly.”

Gabe couldn’t agree more. 

“Sounds like a plan, B. Frankie, take us home.”

Frank gleefully punches the gas when the light changes to green. “With fucking _pleasure_. I hate playing nanny for stupid assholes with no damn regard for their own safety.” 

*~*~*~*

Valerie’s wearing red when Gabe approaches her desk. She smiles when he places a tiny, pink envelope next to her phone. It isn’t a bribe. More like a show of good faith. Unlike Ken, she isn’t accepting of outside coffee and doesn’t have a particular fondness for sweets.

She glances at her computer screen before tapping the inside edge of her desk with her pen. “You’re earlier than Mr. Wentz is expecting.”

Gabe shrugs. “Got bored. There’s only so much paperwork a man can do before his eyes bleed. Is Pete free or should I take a seat and wait?”

Valerie shakes her head with a quirk of her pink lips while she scrolls through Pete’s morning schedule. After a few moments, she looks up and smiles. “He’s free for another twenty minutes. Have a good working holiday, Agent Saporta.” Then the doors to Administration unlock.

Gabe waves before shouldering through the doors before they lock again. On the other side, Ken, also in red, only looks up from his desk for a second with a raised eyebrow and then goes back to his computer screen. The tall, green cup Gabe places on the corner of his desk, however, isn’t as easily dismissed.

“It’s good to see you didn’t bring the Director coffee this year. I will be sure to send a message to Agent Stump on this development. He will be pleased.” Ken types a few keystrokes into his keyboard. “Director Wentz has a conference call with Head Coordinator Owens in thirty, Agent Saporta. If you’re here for Weekly Check-in you might wish to be swift about it.” 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Ken.” Gabe chuckles to himself when there isn’t a reply. 

Pete’s office door is half open when Gabe stops to rap lightly on the side while leaning on the wood so the door will slowly swing fully open. Pete instantly looks up, ages behind a desk haven’t dulled his senses. It’s comforting, knowing that agent skills don’t completely go away when you’re no longer out in the field 24/7.

“You’re early. Urie sent an email this morning that he wished to update the Agent terminals without interruption. I had _assumed_ this meant you and Iero would be guarding the floor against attack from stubborn field agents on mission leave for most of the day.”

Gabe shuts the door behind him and leans against it. “Brendon wanted to try and turn Frank and I into rudimentary hackers. Said something about a computer program that could run background interference without being traced. I got lost three seconds in, begged off, and decided to come here.” 

Pete steeples his fingers then lets them drop lightly to his desk. “How is your team doing? I appreciate the update emails Urie sends me. However he does not report to me. You or Rogers are his immediate supervisors.”

Gabe shrugs effortlessly while crossing the distance between the door and Pete’s desk to snag a chair and drop into it _almost_ uncaringly.

“Rogers’ might be a damn good taskmaster, but he’s given up the ghost of trying to reel Brendon in. If he says anything to B, it’s a reminder to stop disturbing the rest of his Lab Staff, as if Frank and Brendon aren’t his jurisdiction any longer.”

Gabe smirks and leans forward to poke Pete’s name plate into a more crooked position. “Congratulations, Director Wentz; you’ve successfully adopted two more men for your super secret sleeper ploy to transform your department into an unbeatable, private spy organization.”

Pete shakes his head but smiles. “I see placing you with Iero and Urie has only made you even _more_ incorrigible than ever.”

Gabe laughs. “You only have yourself to blame for that, Boss Man. The guys are fine. Frank’s beginning to outfit a new containment option for a few of his less _volatile_ chemicals. You have Brendon’s progress reports, and all of my paperwork makes its way to your files. There’s nothing new. M.A.N.D.I.’s lying low at the moment. All of the other dipshits that fuck with operations are being quiet.”

Or if they aren’t, the field agents are covering their own asses fine. For once.

If today’s streak goes the way it should, Gabe will get to enjoy a fucking _dopey_ , _sappy as shit_ fake holiday with his boyfriends. No extended lab stay. No late evening sparring sessions. Just a comfortable date night at home with the two assholes Gabe doesn’t think he could live without anymore.

Pete nods. “Are their any issues I should be made aware of?”

Gabe shakes his head. “Unless you can do anything about the death glares the labrats give me when I stay around _my_ team for longer than three minutes.”

There’s a _hmmm_ from Pete. He opens a desk drawer, pulls out an unmarked, white envelope, and pushes it over to the edge of his desk. “Perhaps this will help. You and your team have until Monday to be back up to a functioning capacity, per Supervisor Rogers’ request.”

Gabe reaches out for the envelope and opens it slowly. Four stamped key cards tumble into his palm. The stamp reads _Search and Rescue Research Lab, B Level, Restricted Access._

Brendon is going to fucking flip over his own inventing space that isn’t one of the spare rooms in their apartment. Gabe runs a finger under where it says _Restricted Access_. Frank’s going to secretly be so damn elated that outside agents can’t barrel in without knocking first.

“There are seven keys. Rogers has one. I have two and you have four. I would suggest that you not lose them.”

“Fuck off, Wentz. You know I don’t misplace my shit. You’re just baiting on purpose.” Gabe turns the four key cards over in his hand. “We only need three.”

“The fourth key goes with the fourth computer terminal that will be joining yours when Patrick and Travis bring them over from IT tomorrow morning. I advise that you place the key in the top desk drawer for an eventuality.”

Gabe glances up at that. Pete has something planned. But then, he always does. If Gabe asks he’ll only get cryptic bullshit answers until Pete decides to reveal his master plan. “I didn’t know Agent Stump had returned from his latest mission.”

“He submitted his debriefing reports this morning.”

Which explains why Pete has two keys. One for himself and one for Patrick. Gabe has half a mind to give the spare in his hand to Travie. He won’t. But it’s a nice thought to have.

“Does Travie know you’ve rescheduled our four-man poker game to an undetermined date in favor of enlisting him and Patrick in helping us move lab equipment and office furniture?”

Pete turns to his computer, glancing at the desktop clock before giving Gabe his full attention. “This was his and Patrick’s plot, not mine. However, I believe the plan is for them to spirit you away Sunday night for cards and beer after they’ve finished helping you and your team unpack.”

Well, there _officially_ goes Gabe’s first Valentine’s Day with the guys. It’s not as if he had fancy plans or shit like that. Nor is it that the three of them cared to celebrate. It would have been nice. However, their own working space is too fine a deal to pass up over a holiday that’s only in existence to sell over-priced candy and diamonds to desperate men. 

Gabe stands and unbuttons his shirt cuffs before rolling up his sleeves. Then he slips the folded-up envelope into the front pocket of his dark slacks.

“I’ll let you prepare for your conference call. Don’t let Head Coordinator Owens give you an aneurysm. You don’t have an heir to the throne named.” 

Pete waves him off. “If anything, it’ll be the Defense Head asking for resources while the Head of Intel attempts to be opportunistic with the smaller organizations. I’m only sitting in because I have HR transfers to barter over.” 

Gabe scrunches his face unhappily at the mention of the other heads of department. Heidi’s an ice queen Gabe can’t stand, and Jason is what would happen if a snake mated with a weasel and then had human offspring. They’re not people Gabe would wish to spend his time dealing with. He’s not a fan of the political hoops that goes into being Director. 

Thankfully, Pete doesn’t mind or they’d all be fucked.

“Oh, and before you go, Agent Saporta. If you’re going to bribe Administration staff, either buy cupcakes for the break room so everyone can have one. Or, remember to bring me a coffee as well.”

Gabe moves to the door and rests his hand on the handle, but stops and glances back at Pete. “It’s not bribery. And Patrick’s promised to skin me alive if I bring you any more coffee than what you already grab when you come in in the mornings. My meat suit wouldn’t fit his small stature so I’m refraining from angering him before Saint Patties’ Day so I can get a few leprechaun jokes in before Frank spoils everyone’s fun. Happy Valentine’s Day, Pete. I’ll email if we run into any problems with relocating.”

*~*~*~*

There’s a hesitant knock followed by a feminine voice saying _melon_ against the metal door. Gabe looks up from his computer screen to study the strip of light under the door. Brendon shifts a few metal parts to the crook of his arm so he has a free hand to grab for the remote he keeps on the edge of his desk. 

With a click and whirr of mechanics, the door creaks open. Plum pushes on the metal to stick her head through the crack. Her knuckles rap against the door’s frame twice, the sound hollow and dull compared to the music floating up from Brendon’s computer speakers.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if I could borrow an electronics screwdriver? Garcia bent ours, and Rogers is being an anal retentive, penny pincher asshole. He won’t let us requisition another one from Supplies.”

Brendon sets down the tools he’s working with and moves to the table shoved against the far wall of their lab slash _team room_. Better known as where the unused or broken equipment was previously stored. They’ve had this space for a month, and Gabe’s sure he’ll always get a thrill when any of the other labrats venture out of the main lab to beg for supplies. 

The twitchy little fucks couldn’t deal with Gabe lingering about during regular staff hours, so they decided to bitch to Rogers about unproductive working conditions. Coupled with Gabe repeatedly speaking to Pete about the discontent, it suddenly meant the three of them were being shuffled to a new space. To say that pissed the rest of the labbies off would be an understatement extraterrestrials can see light years away.

It doesn’t matter that the space is jam packed with tables, desks, and equipment. What does is that Brendon and Frank now have their own private lab where they can do whatever they please. 

Seriously, Gabe can’t stop mentally laughing at that. Not that he was pestering the techies and inventors for that reason or even pestering them in general. He can’t help that two thirds of his crew are basement level, lab dwellers. If they’re going to be working, and he’s got nothing to do that isn’t boring as fuck paperwork, well then, Gabe’s going to be found perched on the side of one of their desks. And hey, he’s not known for being a quiet person, so he’s going to make small talk. It’s not his fault that it’s easy to bait Brendon into arguing with him over the finer points of SKA in comparison to Reggae or something else completely off the wall just to get Frank to grumble and glare at them for disturbing him.

There’s the sound of metal shifting and sliding against each other before Brendon makes a tiny _ah ha_ noise in the back of his throat. He tosses the screwdriver in the air twice when he finds it. 

“It’s a little old and the hand grip’s wonky. If you’re not careful, you’ll strip something, but it’s straight and not going to be a bitch about alignment.”

Plum accepts the tool when Brendon hands it to her.

“Thanks, I’ll try to have it back to you soon.”

And with that, Plum vanishes back through the doorway. Brendon pushes the door closed behind her before going back to his desk, increasing the volume of his speakers when he’s comfortably perched on the edge of his chair. In less than a minute the music is replaced with dialogue.

_”Beware the Ides of March.”_

When the phrase starts to loop with musical accompaniment, over and over again, Frank drops his black pen onto the chemical equations he’s scratching out in his notebook. It’s a very deliberate move. Gabe spins his desk chair so he can watch the dramatics.

Brendon’s spent most of the morning juggling building a mini robot, fixing a set of training sync watches, fiddling with his handheld, and annoying the fuck out of Frank with sound bytes from Julius Caesar. Gabe’s spent the morning pretending to do paperwork while betting via text with Patrick - who refused to actually bet anything - on how long it would take until Frank snapped and started throwing shit at Brendon’s desk to shut his ass up about The Ides of March. 

Eleven is cutting it perilously close to lunch, which means Gabe lost. Patrick’s going to expect payment, even if he technically didn’t win. 

Frank pushes his chair back, eyeing Brendon’s speaker with malicious intent. Gabe slips his phone out of his suit jacket pocket and is bringing up Patrick’s last text when there’s the unmistakable click-clack of heels over tile. 

Frank freezes. He doesn’t enjoy the sound of unexpected stilettos. They bring bad memories in their wake. 

It usually isn’t a problem. Plum and Garcia wear sensible flats. And Bev from HR is rarely down in the basement unless she’s already sent an email or it’s glaringly obvious that she’ll be visiting the labs over an HR issue.

The knock, when it comes, is polite. Frank’s shoulders untense, and he uses the moment to dart forward and cut off Brendon’s speaker. Brendon huffs in aggravation but reaches for the door remote.

“Good morning, Beverly. Just give it a little push.”

Frank shakes his head at Brendon’s cheery disposition but doesn’t comment, instead going back to his desk and hopping up to sit on the corner, facing the door.

Gabe stands when Bev comes in. “Morning, Bev. What can we do for you?”

Beverly’s brow furrows when she looks to her left. “One moment, Agent Saporta. I seem to have lost your new team member. The Director should have informed you this morning. I will be back shortly.”

With that, Beverly turns smartly and walks out into the hall where there already seems to be a heated conversation going on between two male voices. Gabe thinks about moving to eavesdrop, but he has more pressing matters to attend. 

Like why they have a new team member. 

When he logs into his email, there’s something from Pete. However, the email wasn’t there the fifty million other times he’s checked his emails today. Which means Pete waited until the exact time he _knew_ HR would be sending down their _fourth_ member to send pertinent information.

Gabe sighs and runs a hand down the side of his face. While it would have been fucking fantastic knowing in advance, he can understand why Pete waited for the zero hour. Brendon would have cracked into Pete’s personnel files to get more information. Frank would have been agitated and surly for days. This way it’s a bandaid. Something everyone can bond over. 

“I told you the fourth computer desk wasn’t randomly around just to house your discarded inventions.”

“Because you know _everything_ , Frankie. Help me clean off the desk before they get back.”

Gabe shakes his head at the guys’ antics. But, at least, Frank only seems mildly untrusting, and Brendon’s curious bounce is slight. Whoever the new person is, they probably won’t appreciate their new team being dialed up to ten the first time they meet everyone.

Brendon’s just finished depositing the last hunk of scrap metal to one of the work benches when Beverly comes back. This time she has a smartly dressed guy with her. He’s taller than the guys but still shorter than Gabe. His suit’s expertly ironed, gray jacket and slacks, shined black shoes, blue dress shirt, and a crisp, gray-blue tie. The ensemble, coupled with a steady but distrustful gaze and straightened shoulders, would be intimidating if it wasn’t for the fact that Gabe’s been around the block too often to be impressed, and the guys don’t care about agent presentation.

Not unless it’s Appreciate Gabe in a Suit day. Which it isn’t.

Frank scoffs under his breath. Thankfully, he doesn’t actively comment or bait the agent standing in front of them.

“Agent Saporta, Lab Technicians Iero and Urie, this is Agent Smith. He recently transferred from the Las Vegas division. The Director believes he will be best fitted here. If there seems to be anything wrong with his paperwork I will inform you. Have a good day, gentlemen.” Beverly hands Agent Smith a manilla folder before smiling and shutting the lab door behind her. 

Brendon rocks onto the balls of his feet. There’s mirth in his eyes. Gabe can already _hear_ the conversation during the car ride home. By the time they make it to the apartment, Frank’s going to have banned anything Matrix related from being watched or brought up for the foreseeable future.

“Welcome to the family ...” Brendon pauses.

Gabe glances from Brendon’s confused frown to Agent Smith’s impressively bitchy scowl. “We go by first names here. That’s Brendon. The angry midget perched on the desk is Frank. I’m Gabe. You are … ?”

Agent Smith’s stance becomes more ridgid than before. “Spencer. No nicknames. Just Spencer.” There’s a pause in conversation where Smith promptly stalks from the front of the lab to the empty desk. He drops his file folder onto the center of the desk with a solid thump before turning with the key card Frank pulled from the top drawer and set next to the monitor. “Who do I make an appointment with if I wish to transfer out of this little _family_?”

Brendon’s frown deepens. “You just got here...”

Smith’s resulting glare is the loudest unvoiced _so_ Gabe has ever _not_ heard, and that’s an accomplishment considering how Frank and Patrick operate with nonverbal body language when they’re pissed.

“Director Wentz is the only one who can approve or deny transfers. After that, you’re shuffled to HR for paperwork. However, I don’t fucking _think_ the Director’s going to just send you up to the Agent floor your first day. Calm the fuck down and form an actual opinion before you turn into a judgemental asshole.” Frank slides off his desk and folds his arms across his chest.

Smith doesn’t take that well. His stance widens. Gabe takes two steps forward to put himself between Smith and Frank.

“We aren’t _brawling_. If anyone wants to spar, go to the gym. Frank, don’t you have equations to work on? I don’t think they’ll solve themselves. Spencer, Brendon’s backed up your terminal with copies of every mission we’ve run in the past ten months. We’re on down time, so I recommend you familiarize yourself with our objectives. It’s not exactly _normal_ fieldwork, but you should do fine.”

Frank glares at Gabe but goes back to his desk. Smith’s glare is equally fierce. Gabe’s expecting him to lash out. Test Gabe’s patience, try to find weak spots. However, whatever he finds when he searches Gabe’s face must be enough. He deflates. Three seconds later, he’s seated in front of his terminal waiting for the processor to boot.

Gabe pulls his phone back out. 

**U shuld hv said smthng. Frank &Smith wnt 2 kill eachother already.**

When he doesn’t get an instantaneous reply, Gabe goes back to his desk. A few hands of solitaire sound like a good idea right about now. 

*~*~*~*

Footsteps barely make any noise as they pass. Gabe presses his ear to the wall, waiting for a sign. Not far from him Frank is crouched, burning lines into tile. The smell isn’t pleasant. Gabe continues to listen for incoming hostiles. 

There’s a metal chair jammed under the door handle of the room they’re holed up in. The office desk moved to obstruct Frank from the view of anyone trying to burst in.

The footsteps fade away into nothing.

“A little faster, Frankie.” Gabe doesn’t like this. Something feels _wrong_.

Frank salutes Gabe with his middle finger. “Chemical’s cutting as quickly as it can. The floor’s thicker than we expected. Does Brendon have anything yet?”

As if on cue, Gabe’s comm hisses with barely audible static before Brendon’s voice filters through the link. “Guys, we have a _problem_. The ceiling to the cell is alarmed up like Charlotte's Web. On the lucky side, nothing appears to be boobytrapped like we’re Indiana Jones or something.”

Frank curses. Loudly. He rifles through his duffle for rope and several thin, glass vials. Once he has the rope he goes over to the giant metal desk. Gabe watches as he crawls under it to secure the rope to the middle of the frame.

“We’re going in hot. Cut the lights. We’ll see you on the other side.”

Frank taps his cheek and then his ear to silence his comm a few seconds before Gabe does. He doesn’t get to hear Smith angrily growl about protocol like Gabe does. 

“Frankie, plan. Now.”

Gabe’s moving from the door to the desk, pulling out two Percussion Silencing Buds from his jacket pocket. He throws one at Frank, who catches it effortlessly, slipping the bud into his left ear quickly. Gabe follows suit.

No use in going deaf when they have the best in updated noise cancellation technology in both their comm devices _and_ the PSBs. Explosions can be fucking loud. As can gunfire.

The good thing is that human voices aren’t suppressed. The buds are specially made for filtering out sounds that peak at certain decibels. Gabe might be in love with the version Brendon’s created. Voices come in crystal clear even in hectic situations, while bullets are less likely to damage Gabe’s hearing than ten years ago when the technology was only starting to become profoundly helpful.

“Blow the floor. Save the _Princess_ and get the hell out of dodge.” Frank shoulders his duffle but not before pulling out square wall charges. He hands a few to Gabe. “You’re on Damsel Duty.”

“I’m _always_ on Damsel Duty.” Gabe’s voice is stressed. Going in hot is never a fun experience.

Frank pulls Gabe into a quick kiss. Then he pushes off of Gabe’s chest so Gabe trips and goes down, using the desk as cover while Frank blows the ceiling by breaking one of his vials.

He’s down the rope before Gabe has a chance to come around the desk. Gabe moves from his position to wrap a gloved hand around the hemp and drops through the hole.

It’s less a climb down and more a controlled fall.

Claxons blare as his feet thump to tile. The noise isn’t as deafening as it should be. Thank fuck. The last thing Gabe wants is a massive migraine from alarms. 

Frank’s already working on Agent Calhorn’s chains. Gabe’s there to lift him the second Frank’s finished. Which is a good thing because the door crashes open not even a moment later.

Frank pulls his service weapon. His shots are clean. With his free hand he dips his pointer finger into the vial held loosely to his palm with his pinkie. Gabe lets him take point.

Two more guards go down in an instant right before the lights go out completely, only the glaring red of alarm lights illuminating the hallway. There’s yelling and chaos. Frank traces a line of smoke down the wall as he goes, sprinkling chemical on the tile floor every few feet.

Gabe shifts the deadweight on his shoulder, pivots, turns and shoots the guards trying to flank them from the only other connecting hallway in the compound. 

Brendon’s voice crackles through the comm link. “I have their intel. We’re frying the server room now. FYI, the lobby is going to be hell.” Then the link goes dead again. Completely dead this time. Gabe sighs. There goes another piece of electronics not protected by EMP-proof materials.

On the plus side, that means the hostiles can’t communicate without yelling even louder. On the negative, the alarm lights - along with the alarm - are also gone.

Gabe snags the back of Frank’s shirt, tugs him into an empty room. It takes a minute to blindly ransack Frank’s duffle for two pairs of non-electronic night vision glasses. There’s only so much you can carry in your hands when you’re breaking an agent out of a holding cell.

Calhorn was transferred to this compound an hour ago. Once it was found out that he wasn’t just a thief sneaking around for information, that he was actually a spy who might have his own intel to divulge. From the state of his fingers, he hadn’t broken. Yet.

That’s another plus in their corner. Even if barely getting to memorize the floor plan wasn’t as positive. Whatever. That doesn’t matter. What does is getting out without injury.

Frank counts down with three fingers. At one, they slip out of the room and make their way to the lobby. Brendon wasn’t wrong. It _is_ hell. Smith’s ganking goons left and right. Brendon not far from him, manually rewiring their exit, only stopping to shoot hostiles when they begin to overwhelm Smith. Gabe sets Calhorn next to Brendon before joining Smith in Crowd Control. Frank starts a smoke diversion. Once he has some cover, he darts behind enemy fire to slap up wall charges. 

Then he’s tossing the empty smoke vial, pulling another from one of his pockets. As the wall charges blow, he pours the contents of the new vial in a fiery line, dividing Search and Rescue from enemy fire. 

Gabe watches more men flow through, stepping over rubble, the injured and the dead before thinking quickly. He leaves Smith to go to Brendon. The three wall charges in Gabe’s pocket should blow the door. 

“I’m taking the door out. Cover Calhorn.”

Brendon nods and efficiently packs up his few tools before scooting closer to Calhorn. Gabe places the charges, goes to crouch next to Brendon and yells as loudly as he can to Frank and Smith. Everyone catches the signal, falling into line. 

The door blows quickly. Gabe makes sure his feet are solidly under him and lifts Calhorn into another fireman’s carry. Smith stiffly takes point, Brendon helps Gabe balance as they step over the remaining bits of door. Frank covers their rear.

The sound of glass breaking is the only warning they have to signal that Frank’s decided to torch the whole damn compound with what he calls Miracle Mix. Sirens in the distance press them all to pick up their pace. Brendon darts from Gabe’s side to the cluster of vehicles in a small lot to the side of the compound.

He’s gone for two minutes, vanishing into the center of cars easily. When he emerges again, it’s with a grin on his face. As he’s fast-walking to catch up with Gabe’s long-ass strides there’s a pale blue flash from the cluster followed by the scent of fried electronics.

“Couldn’t have tails.” His voice is louder than it should be in the quiet of the day.

They all pop out their PSBs. Brendon’s goes into his messenger bag front slot. Frank slips his into his pants pocket. Gabe tosses his into the air a few times before catching it and deftly letting the tiny device slide down to the bottom of his jacket pocket.

It’s a stupid thing to do, considering the fact that Gabe’s got Calhorn’s weight slung over a shoulder. But it’s worth the effort.

Brendon giggles at his side. Frank snorts at their ridiculousness before joining in on the euphoria. Gabe finds himself laughing harder than is warranted. They survived another extraction. They’re all alive and uninjured. It’s a _good_ day.

The only person not laughing is Smith. Gabe’s mood sours. He counts to five in his head. Predictably, at three Smith’s tongue loosens. 

“What the hell was that? Protocol dictates drastic measures are only taken when no other options are present. We had time to come up with a contingency that wasn’t Urie filling me in on another instance of Iero’s pyromaniac tendencies three seconds before Iero gets fire happy. Then, there’s the needless destruction of property. Code 43 subset-C section 32 states _extensively_ that all operatives are to use the utmost stealth in all missions to ensure no evidence of their presence is detected. That is _not_ inconspicuous.”

Smith turns to glare - hard - at Gabe and the rest of his team. He doesn’t stop walking. 

Gabe rubs at his face with his free hand. Calhorn’s weight is suddenly heavier than it was. 

“Spencer, we were cornered. The situation wasn’t clean-cut. We didn’t have time for another option. You did good today. We’re all alive. Let’s celebrate that, yeah?”

The trip to their waiting rental is made in silence. Smith’s seething at point. Brendon’s picking at the strap of his mission messenger bag - he’s been trying hard to go by a book he’s never had to read just to make Smith more comfortable. Frank kicks at rocks on the path they’ve ducked under a torn fence to reach.

Gabe knows that when they get back, Smith will request another meeting with Director Wentz for the sole purpose of filling out yet _another_ Request for Transfer form. Heaven knows how many separate forms Pete has filed away in Smith’s personnel records in the last month.

Five missions. Only two which have technically gone pear up like this one. And still, Spencer Smith - _former Las Vegas Division agent_ \- isn’t warming up to them. Gabe doesn’t know how much more they can all take. 

It’s obvious that when Smith isn’t fighting his position that he works extremely well with them. However, that’s just the problem. _When_ he isn’t fighting. Which is hardly ever. 

Somehow, they have to convert Spencer to _wanting_ to be one of them without being assholes about it. Maybe Pete’s right and all it will take is time. 

*~*~*~*

Gabe leans forward and kisses Frank. Damn, Gabe _really_ fucking enjoys kissing Frank. The only thing that rivals it is when Brendon’s involved. Brendon’s like some happily bubbling brook and Frank’s a river flooding its banks. Both of them complement and contrast each other in the best way. Frank focused and Brendon making all of them laugh and fumble uncoordinatedly like blushing virgins trying to unhook a bra strap.

To say Gabe’s never been in a relationship like this wouldn’t even begin to cover all the bases. They fight and have arguments and engage in the best make-up sex he’s ever had in his whole life. They bicker and banter like the old married couples in the grocery stores they maneuver around when they actually have time to go shopping for sustenance that isn’t from a carton or box. 

It’s been a year, and they’re still going strong. Gabe hasn’t had a relationship that’s lasted this long since his first girlfriend back in college, and even then, that was an on-again-off-again thing when she discovered the joys of being with women herself and Gabe decided _fuck it_ and started going out with a guy just out of curiosity.

“Earth to Space Cadet Saporta; come in.”

Brendon mumbles the words against his back, puffs of laughter following his voice, before wrapping his arms around Gabe’s waist and licking a line up part of his spine. Gabe backs away from a smirking Frank, Brendon still clinging to his skin, and spins on his heels. Brendon loosens his hold and lets him.

“If anyone’s the space cadet, it’s you, Bren, especially when you decide the internet is more entertaining than we are.”

Gabe places his hands on Brendon’s hips and twists both of them so he’s pressing Brendon’s back against Frank’s front. The two of them always look mind-meltingly hot together, and this time isn’t an exception.

“Less staring … or talking … more action.” Frank growls before leaning forward enough to suck a bruise onto Brendon’s shoulder. 

Brendon tries to hum Elvis’ “A Little Less Conversation” but his voice stutters and breaks into a breathy moan when Frank starts working on unbuttoning his pants. For about half a second, Gabe wonders how they've all managed to lose their shirts but still have their jeans. The thought evaporates as Brendon's fingers curl around his wrist to urge Gabe to _maybe_ get with the program and kiss him already.

That’s when their cell phones start ringing. It’s a text message, not a call. Brendon had the bright idea of setting their ring tones for texts to be different from the calls when they had to buy new phones a few months ago after their old ones took a swim in frigid water. 

Gabe thinks about going to check, but Brendon bounces up on the balls of his feet and goes for a messy kiss. If it’s important, the land line will ring until they pick it up. Hopefully, it won’t because they still have two days of down time to celebrate their anniversary before Frank and Brendon have to be back in the lab producing tech for testy and mouthy spies. 

Brendon’s just starting to slip his fingers under the waistband of Gabe’s jeans when the land line starts to ring, high and shrill.

“Motherfucker.”

Frank curses and wiggles his way from between the bedroom wall and Brendon so he can grab the phone from the living room. Brendon backs away from Gabe to grab his phone from the nightstand and scroll through texts. Gabe sits on the edge of the bed and wills himself to calm down. There’s a ninety-eight percent chance that what they’ve started will have to wait anywhere from three minutes to three days. 

Fuck.

Brendon sighs and drops down next to Gabe. “We’re needed.” He tilts his phone for Gabe to read. 

It’s barebones and non-descript. Safe. Non-traceable. 

“I’m going to call Spencer. Let him know we’ll be by to pick him up in less than twenty.” Brendon leans in and kisses Gabe, quickly. “Happy Anniversary. Love you. Now go get dressed.”

Of all of them, Brendon’s the mostly likely to say _I love you_ , and even then, it’s a rare bird to be caught flying around their apartment. Gabe’s fine with that sort of arrangement. Considering he wouldn’t want anyone to slip up at work.

It isn’t safe for anyone not Travie, Patrick, and Pete to know. 

The last thing Gabe wants is for them to be split up. Brendon would be sent to IT; Frank would go back to the main lab. And Gabe? He’d sink back into the regular agent rotations. Spencer would likely be put into rotation the same as Gabe.

Frank strolls into the bedroom with his shirt half-on. When he notices that Gabe hasn’t moved he kicks Gabe’s shin with the side of his foot. 

“Come on, asshole. We don’t have all day. We have a grumpy toddler to pick up before he can see Uncle Petey.”

Gabe chuckles. When he stands, he pulls Frank into a quick kiss. “Don’t forget your shoes this time, okay?” 

Frank hits his shoulder as Gabe moves Frank so their positions are switched and Gabe can go find his shirt. It’s probably in the living room. Somewhere.

*~*~*~*

“Plants totally win.”

Brendon picks wilted pieces of lettuce from his sandwich and drops them to the grass at his side, the slimy green littering the ground around him. Gabe takes a bite of his own sandwich and watches Smith pick at his salad. He still doesn’t seem very happy about being pushed in their direction, but he hasn’t skipped out on group lunch in the courtyard this time. Gabe plans on giving him another few weeks before saying something about team morale and sour dispositions. Again.

“How can you say that? Zombies always win.”

Frank throws a slice of tomato at Brendon’s head.

“Hey, this isn’t amateur hour. You don’t have to heckle with rotten vegetables.” Brendon makes a disgusted face at the circle of red that’s sliding down the side of his jean covered knee. 

“Tomatoes are nightshades, not vegetables. Plants only win if they can choke the life out of people. Zombies are already dead; they don’t sleep; they don’t stop moving. The best a vine is going to do is trail behind a zombie like a crumpled, toilet paper tail.” 

Frank leans forward and snags the tomato so he can toss it in the direction of the closest tree. There’s nothing intimate or sexual about the motion. In the beginning, Gabe wondered how they were going to make this work without being obvious to everyone within a radius of three miles. 

Somehow, not much has changed. There’s still banter and sarcasm. The kissing and touching stays at home or behind the closed doors of shitty motel rooms. It works for them. There’s no reason to be showy or push for attention at work when they can have all the fun they want when they’re off shift with a massive bed waiting for when they stumble home. 

“What do you think, Spencer?” Brendon goes for a cheerful smile. 

Smith continues to pick at his salad without saying anything. He wishes he were somewhere else, Gabe knows. Hell, not even two years ago, Gabe would have acted the same way. Then Travis got rotated into overseas operations, and Gabe landed himself in the hospital over a shitty personal call during a mission.

The only person who visited him was Pete - twice - when he could find the time to check in. Patrick was in the process of running a series of missions, so Gabe didn’t get the honor of having Patrick’s ire directed his way until later. Travis called once, but was too busy to hop a plane back to the states just to make sure Gabe hadn’t accidentally gotten himself killed over something stupid. No one else had the time or urge to keep him from going stir crazy. 

When he got released, there was nothing to do at home, and Gabe was faced with the reality that he had no life outside of the Department. It was easier taking a cab to the office and bumming around than it was trying to come up with ways to have a life outside of work. Wandering down to the labs had been a fluke, and he wasn’t expecting to make friends. 

The lab staff grumble and put up with the agents, and the agents make fun of the lab staff on the best days. That’s just how it is.

However, Brendon and Frank were easy to get along with, and they didn’t hold Gabe’s sarcasm against him. 

“I haven’t really thought about it. Zombies don’t exist, and anthropomorphic plant life is fantasy, so why does it even matter?”

Gabe shakes his head and does his best not to watch Brendon’s smile drop. Brendon’s been trying for the past _forever_ to make Smith feel welcome, and every time, Smith either says something cutting or mentions articles from the field manual. If Gabe was this egocentric to the lab staff before he bought a clue, it’s a miracle he wasn’t buried under the trees in the courtyard for being a massive douchebag years ago. 

They have a simple, team-building, search task slated soon for eval purposes, and if Smith doesn’t shape up they’ll have to take drastic measures. Their team works because it isn’t conventional. Brendon and Frank don’t have the standard training, so they can think outside the box. They’re not conditioned to expect certain things. It’s the same for Gabe; he can see what they can’t. Coupled together, their skill sets mesh. Smith is supposed to complement them, but all he’s doing is clashing because he’s fighting it like an animal caught in a snare. 

There’s a reason Pete placed Smith here. The Director wouldn’t have done so if he thought Spencer would fail. The guy transferred from the west to the east over personal reasons. But that doesn’t mean he’s only fit for solo agent ops. 

Gabe can see it in how quickly Spencer can adapt to the situations. He might be loath to admit it, but there’s a bit of a rebel under all the starched suit shirts and dark-toned ties. Gabe just doesn’t know if they’ll ever really get to see that person before Pete eventually tires and lets Smith have his way.

*~*~*~*

Summer sunlight reflects off vehicles as Gabe approaches the parking lot from the right, sliding his cell back into a pocket since he doesn’t need it after texting Spencer. Brendon’s flanking left while Frank goes for the direct route of dead center. A woman hefting laundry baskets into the backseat of a beat-up, silver Camry waves at Brendon as he’s nearing the apartment complex entrance. Brendon waves back, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

Gabe lifts his cheapo pair of neon sunglasses until they’re resting in his curls when he reaches the building. Brendon stops at the Camry, bending to help the woman with the rest of her clothing. Gabe can hear the conversation from his post holding up the wall.

“You’re ridiculous, boy. Neon and plaid? You look like an idiot frat-ling from the community college. I thought you had hate for their lifestyle of popped collars?”

Brendon laughs and moves to flick his collar up but Frank slides over and stops him. 

“Morning, Rosa. Don’t tell me, the fucking super lost another maintenance guy and the dryers tried to eat someone again?”

Rosa rolls her eyes. “You boys got out while the going was good. All winter the heating on the floor was spotty. The machines haven’t worked in months. Didn’t expect you two would be here for laundry purposes, anyway. What brings you back?”

Brendon snickers and waves up at a fourth floor window. “We have a friend who moved in a few months ago. Didn’t know until recently. He’s into LARPing and James Bond.” Brendon lifts his sunglasses making a _what can you do_ face at Rosa. “So we thought we’d surprise him with an undercover mission. Introduce him to people. Dude doesn’t have enough friends.”

Gabe smacks the side of the building with the palm of his hand. Twice. Brendon shuts the Camry’s door.

“That’s our cue, Rosa. Have a good day.”

Frank drags Brendon over to the door by his sleeve as Rosa slides into the driver’s seat of her Camry and pulls out of the parking lot. “I don’t fucking _know_ why you fucking insist on doing that. We don’t need more Way-Toros in our lives.”

“There’s no way Rosa believed me. I’m ridiculous.” Brendon punches his old master password into the keypad, beaming victoriously when the lock disengages. “Glad to know the super didn’t think to wipe the whole list. Only our original codes.”

Frank snorts and shakes his head. Gabe grins. Then he pushes off the wall. They have a plan to put into action.

“Come on, munchkins. Operation Friendship is Magic is a go. We have fifteen minutes to acquire our target. We move on to step two after that. Any questions?” 

Gabe doesn’t wait for Frank’s disagreeing comments. This argument is best had while in motion. It’s much more efficient that way.

Frank bitches the whole way up. Brendon engages with laughter and systematic proof that their op name is of sound mind and body.

When they reach the right landing, Gabe pushes Frank’s hair into his face. “You lost the vote fair and square. No one likes a sore loser. Buck up and think of Spencer’s face when he finds out. It’s bound to be hilarious.”

Frank grumbles but seems to mull over the prospect of flabbergasting their fourth teammate before rounding the landing and beelining his way straight to Spencer’s apartment. Gabe and Brendon dutifully follow. 

Gabe doesn’t know why Spencer would live here. He has money. His suits and their immaculately pressed condition are testament to that. That doesn’t even take into account that via Brendon’s virtual snooping prowess, Spencer _did_ live somewhere else when he first transferred in. 

Apparently, a month and a half ago, he broke lease and moved here. He didn’t mention a single word about it. Brendon hadn’t thought to recheck Spencer’s place of residence since most of their missions could be accomplished with picking Spencer up at a random bus stop for authentic purposes. That’s actually what’s supposed to go down today, but yesterday Brendon accidentally stumbled on Spencer’s change of residence HR form, so they obviously had to change their course of action accordingly.

It’s not that this is any of their business. Gabe just wishes Spencer would have said something. They could have helped him move. Brendon would have cracked into the wiring so he’d have more reliable ac and a more secure internet connection. 

Frank briskly knocks on Spencer’s door. His stance is all business. Gabe sidles up next to him when the door opens. Spencer’s in dress slacks, buttoned-down dress shirt, a black tie, and dark suit jacket.

Gabe shakes his head. “Bromingo, this will _not_ do. What part of casual attire was not textually clear? Alex and Nate aren’t fans of suits. You want to play nice then we need to dress you down.”

Spencer squares his shoulders when Frank pushes him back into his apartment. 

Brendon shuts the door behind them. “We promise we won’t molest you.”

Frank snorts like he’s thinking about it as he makes his way toward the closed bedroom door without Spencer’s permission. 

“Why are we even needed for this bullshit? I thought Search and Rescue didn’t go for outside assistance. We’re expected to work with what we have.”

Of course Spencer would be testy over his secret being exposed. His glare hasn’t dropped in intensity since he unlocked his door. 

Gabe glances around the sparsely decorated apartment. There’s a box or two shoved into the far corner of the living room, near the window, either they’re yet to be unpacked or are not supposed to _ever_ be opened. Gabe can’t tell which.

The apartment has actually fared better than he was fearing. Gabe expected to come into a place where there were only boxes ready to be shipped at any moment. It’s somewhat comforting that Spencer doesn’t look transitional. However, it isn’t when Gabe can notice how fucking _lonely_ the place feels.

“Alex and Nate happen to be friends with resources we might have to eventually utilize. You never know when you’re going to be neck-deep in hostile territory with no place to lay low. The guys have safe houses everywhere. A little elbow-grease and handyman services every summer isn’t too much to give in exchange. So, if you’d rather be left to the wolves, you can stay.”

It’s a lie. Alex and Nate would never hold manual labor over Gabe’s head. They’re more the type to expect beer and stupid stories about agents who continue to be stupid shits than ask for anything else. It could be a side effect of the three of them rarely getting the time to hang or it could just be that’s how their friendship has been since Gabe first met them.

He has to admit it’s a hell of a lot less intense than the few times Gabe’s found to visit with his friends in the CIA. Which is _not_ something to be thinking about at this place and time. Sure, Sean and Norman are good people, but if Gabe thought his life could be hectic and risky as shit, then the life of a CIA agent pair is way above what he wants to do with his time. 

Period. 

Spencer stalks off to his bedroom. Frank indignantly goads him with “You’re as bad as Danger Mouse Stump. Do you own _anything_ that isn’t a suit? This is fucking ridiculous as shit. You need to buy a fucking pair of jeans. Jesus Christ painting the Virgin Mary’s nails, this is sad as fuck.” 

Brendon slinks from the door to Gabe’s side. He drops his voice to a whisper. “You think I shouldn’t have hacked his personnel file?”

Gabe ruffles Brendon’s hair. Maybe Bren shouldn’t have but this is something they need to see. 

“Maybe, but lets make the best of it now that we know.”

Brendon glances toward Spencer’s bedroom, where he and Frank seem to be in an argument over clothing regulations. Gabe eyes the open door. Brendon takes that as his cue to bolt for the room.

By the time Gabe gets there, Brendon’s already trying to talk Spencer into moving into their apartment. Gabe leans against the door frame to watch the chaos. Spencer doesn’t want to live with them. Not to mention how badly that would put a damper on their secret relationship.

“This isn’t a superhero movie, Brendon. We don’t all need to live together to be a cohesive whole.” Spencer’s voice is distracted because he’s eyeing Frank’s final choice of attire with disdain. “If you think I’m wearing anything without a tie then you’re fucking delusional, Iero.”

Frank instantly launches into safety studies on how royally fucking stupid ties are in occupations with a high rate of violence without missing a beat. Brendon, thankfully, refrains from bringing up the statistics of un-injured cops and military personnel after the staffs switched to clip-ons.

Gabe sighs. “Just this one time, Spencer. Humor me. My friends aren’t very fond of drones. It makes a better impression if you look as if you have a personality outside of work.”

That shuts Spencer up. A pointed look sent Frank’s way keeps Frankie from saying something aggravating and triumphant. After that, Gabe ushers everyone else out so Spencer can change in peace.

It takes five minutes.

When Spencer comes back out, he still looks more professional than they do. It’s leagues better than when they showed up, though. Gerard and the guys won’t mind. They already know Spencer’s a bit of a manual-cuddling hardass with a penchant for tempting fate with clothing that shouldn’t be worn for missions.

Brendon smiles and claps Spencer on the shoulder. “We have five minutes to get to the rental. I get to drive.”

Spencer locks up, and they make their way down the stairs. 

“How the fuck did you three know where I lived?”

Brendon shrugs and raises his hand from the front. “We used to live here. Before we became members of the Avengers. The address wasn’t hard to miss when I … um … was checking updates to your file.” Brendon drops his hand, his shoulders slumping some. “I was making sure nothing foreign had slipped into the files unnoticed. I do a sweep every two months. It’s staggered so I can make sure the building continues to be secure.”

The underlying message that Brendon’s paranoid as shit at the best of times is left unsaid. At least, it’s one of the few things Spencer seems to be fine with as long as Brendon doesn’t snoop farther than the thin collection of information sitting in Spencer’s personnel file at the Department. It’s the same as how he’s started adjusting to Gabe’s insistence on team sparring exercises without complaint, and also readily reminds them when Frank’s reserved spots at the range for target practice show up on the calendar. 

They’re making _slow_ progress. But progress, none the less.

“You should have asked.”

Brendon doesn’t say anything. He moves from the bottom of the stairs to the exit. 

“Would you have answered?” Frank’s interference is less hostile than Gabe had expected.

“No. It’s none of your business.”

Gabe holds the door open. “We’re not doing this here. Perhaps it isn’t our business. Doesn’t change that we know. You can let this get to you, or you can move on. Roll with it.”

Spencer shoves his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants. “Next fucking time, I’m showing up unannounced at your apartment.”

Brendon spins so he’s walking backwards at point as they make their way through the parking lot. “I like how you think. We can watch movies. Have you seen _Rise of the Guardians_ , yet? It recently came out on DVD. I have a copy. It’s legal and everything.

Spencer’s eyebrow raises some at the legal comment, but he doesn’t ask. “So what, we’ll watch animated films, eat pizza and _bond?_ Don’t tell me, that’s how you three worked out your differences and became a _team_?”

Gabe rolls his eyes. Spencer wants to make it sound like friendship over children’s movies is stupid. Which, maybe it is. Doesn’t change the fact that it worked for them. It could with Spencer if he’d let it.

“You knocking our methods, Smith?” Frank pokes Spencer’s shoulder when he turns to follow Brendon as they cross the road in front of the building to weave a path to the abandoned subdivision a good three minute walk away.

“Fucking _really_? I thought you were a tiny badass, Iero. I can’t imagine your ass watching cartoons for fun.”

Frank turns his poke into a playful shove. “Saporta’s the one with the My Little Pony fetish. I don’t watch kiddie shit.”

Spencer shoves him back. “You sure you aren’t secretly a little girl with ribbons in your hair?”

Gabe chuckles. This is more like it.

Brendon drops back and pivots so he’s at Frank’s side. He links his arm with Frank’s. “We’re little twin girls. Didn’t you know that, Spencer? Frankie _loves_ sparkly ponies and everything.”

Frank growls and shoves Brendon, who laughs. Gabe watches Spencer’s back tense. He goes quiet. In the course of a few seconds, he’s gone from opening up a crack to being tightly wound. Again.

“Frank’s a pretentious horror fan. He has a collection of Hammer movies he likes to jack off to. It’s disconcerting. He won’t listen when I say it’s an unhealthy obsession that I don’t want to walk in on again.”

Brendon jumps in with a “It’s like you’ve never heard of locking your door, or putting a sock on the handle. You have no roommate manners.” when he realizes Gabe’s trying to defuse the tension that’s suddenly trying to smother them.

Frank flips them off. “I hate _all_ of you. You need a roommate, Spencer?” 

Spencer’s look of confused whiplash is worth the unease that’s beginning to dissipate.

“Hell no. That is _not_ happening.” 

Gabe chuckles and tugs Frank back by the collar of his Misfits shirt. “Looks like you’re stuck with us, Frankington the Short.”

Frank reaches up to move Gabe’s hand from his shirt. The move looks like it should be painful. It isn’t. Gabe quirks his eyebrow at Frank when he doesn’t even twist or flex to bend ligaments. 

Brendon pulls out his phone. “We’re out of time.” Then he fishes out a key ring and raises it to the sunlight. “But luckily, we’re here. Spencer, you want shotgun?”

“Why not.” Spencer doesn’t wait another beat, striding to the front passenger door while Brendon pops the trunk to pull out a lavender polo - stupid fucking alligator emblem and everything - stowing his ridiculously bright neon sunglasses before stripping off the plaid shirt in favor of slowly changing shirts. Once he looks a little more put together - polo over nice jeans, a pair of blue and white Converse without much wear, and the sleek sunglasses that are stashed away any time they pull this charade of Brendon being someone else - they’re ready to leave.

Gabe has to admit, it’ll make them look less conspicuous if there’s someone who bridges the gap between extremely casual to Spencer’s barely business casual. Who knew Brendon’s monthly Saturday routine would come in handy for more things today than renting a vehicle so Spencer really does believe this is a covert mission to give him more contacts. 

Brendon’s the last one in. The doors lock as he starts the ignition. Frank uses their secondary phone to text the Ways to give them an ETA. All in all, Operation Friendship is Magic has kicked off without a hitch. Spencer doesn’t suspect a thing.

Not until Brendon pulls into a grocery store parking lot - parking in a blind spot - fifteen minutes away from the subdivision.

“Why are we parking here? A meet-up in a parking lot isn’t usually a safe place to coordinate with safe house operators. Too easy to gain a tail.”

Frank pops his door and slides out. “You ever heard of the term _resupply_ , Spence? Gabe has _lists_. You get to enjoy the scintillating wonders of _shopping_. You might find you like the mind-rotting domesticity.”

Brendon locks the car after Gabe’s gotten out. “Cameras are at the front sliding glass door and windows pointing out into the lot. They’re easy to miss, except for the entrance one. But we should be fine there. Just act natural, and we’re good.” 

Gabe laughs at Brendon’s enthusiasm. 

“Everyone has a list and a stipend.” If this was only Brendon and Frank with him, Gabe wouldn’t have gone to the measures of writing out lists and handing them out to everyone along with a twenty paperclipped to the back of each list. “We have thirty minutes, starting now. Everyone sync, and we’ll break.”

A chorus of sync’s are voiced before Brendon takes first run and makes for the door while humming the Inspector Gadget theme to himself. Frank follows but instead of looking as if he has all the time in the world and is happy about that, he scowls and pulls out his service phone to glare at the screen as if he’s been sent a text that has severely put a damper on his plans for the day.

Gabe shakes his head to refrain from laughing; his guys are hammy as shit. Spencer gives him a side-eyed look followed by an unhappy huff before rolling his shoulders and striding through the open doors with single-minded purpose, eyes going from his list to the inside of the store. Once Spencer’s lost behind the closing door, Gabe makes his approach, slow and confident, like he’s done this before.

Which he has. They _always_ stop for snacks on Casa Way days. Unless they’re asked not to for festivity reasons.

Four two-liter bottles of Mountain Dew, three cans of Pringles, one pack of Oreos and Chips Ahoy, and an unauthorized bag of M&Ms later they’re all back to the rental. Spencer’s eyeing the bags Gabe’s inventorying in the truck with mistrust. Gabe knows that means the inevitable is about to occur. Spencer’s going to say _something_.

“You don’t restock a safe house with snack foods, Iero.” Spencer turns his gaze from glaring at Frank to focus sternly on Gabe. “Why _are we here?_ What mission could possibly _need_ junk snacks?”

“Operation: Smith Needs More Fucking Friends and to Socialize Like a Normal Fucking Person.” Frank cuts in before Gabe or Brendon can say anything. 

Gabe sighs. He gets _why_ Frank’s derailing Brendon and Gabe’s original op name, but he’s being a little too _fierce_. Spencer hardly ever reacts well to this level of punch without wanting to knock Frankie in the teeth for being an asshole. 

And, yeah, Spencer doesn’t take it well.

“I socialize _fine_. I don’t need a trio of _working_ besties trying to interfere with my life. I was fine before you existed and don’t need fucking help.”

Brendon closes the trunk and boosts up to sit on it, mostly to get Spencer’s attention. “We don’t mean it like that, Spence. You just seem _lonely_ , and we thought you might like to meet a few of our friends. They’re low maintenance and don’t mind that we can’t talk about our jobs. They know we’re super secret spy agents, and they’re not telling anyone. We’re just going to watch _Star Wars_ and throw chips at each other. If you really don’t want to go, I’ll drive you home, but you might enjoy yourself if you come. It’ll be fun.”

Gabe’s expecting Spencer to grit his teeth at Brendon’s imploring tone. Instead, he turns on his heel and stalks to the passenger’s side.

“If we’re going, lets go now. Get this over with.” Then he looks over the roof at Gabe. “Don’t do this shit again. I don’t _do_ fake missions.”

There’s no asking involved. Spencer expects this to be fact. Gabe can do that. He nods, and Spencer curtly accepts the nod before climbing back into the rental.

Well, that went swimmingly. Gabe just hopes Spencer won’t dismiss Mikey, Gerard, and Ray before he even gives them a chance. That would suck ass because the Ways and Ray are good people to have in your corner. 

It’s nice to have friends who don’t expect high-tech gadgets or action-packed spy missions. Gabe likes the calm. Maybe Spencer will too. 

Maybe.

*~*~*~* 

Frank’s got Gabe shoved up against the smooth glass of the gaudy-ass motel mirror. For some reason, the room has a full length sheet of glass covering part of the wall. The other one they have rented is exactly the same. It’s like staring at a carbon copy of a case file. 

They shouldn’t be doing this. Spencer’s finally stopped acting like a royal jackass every second of the day; it’s only taken almost four months and the numerous, recent _mandatory_ team movie nights to instill a sense of trust into his thick skull. He’s still touchy more times than not - mostly concerning his personal life - but he’s stopped making a million different little, nit-picky, condescending comments. 

Gabe’s going to count it as a win. It doesn’t hurt that Spencer’s bi-weekly transfer inquiries have started to slow in frequency. Pete was pleased when he relayed that message to Gabe during their last progress meeting.

Which makes the position Gabe’s in with Frank highly compromising. Spencer could walk in at any minute and catch them. The last thing they need is for him to get confused and jump to the wrong conclusions. 

The door connecting their two rooms creaks open, letting the sound of a tinny laugh track flow between the rooms until Brendon slips through and closes the door behind him. It’s been a bitch having a fourth member at times like this. Sure, it’s good having another set of hands when they need them and more muscle around for heavy lifting, but they’ve gotten used to sharing a room. 

With Spencer as part of the group, it’s not really an option anymore. 

They’re going to have to clue him in because - as Brendon would say- _Sharing is caring_. Gabe’s just waiting a few more months before doing anything that might scar the guy or make him think they’re going to ask him out. Spencer’s not a bad looking guy, but he’s straighter than his flat-ironed hair. 

Plus, he doesn’t fit with them that way. Gabe might have been brought into the Iero-Urie inner-circle of physicality during their first motel stay on a job, but that doesn’t mean there’s room for anyone else in that capacity. Also, it’s good to have someone solid to watch your back who could be a friend when they stop fighting the tide. Gabe doesn’t have many immediate friends, the Ways and Ray don’t count since, at the moment, they’re closer to long distance friends than anything else.

“We can’t just keep sneaking around after he’s out like a light. I miss falling asleep with you guys. The bed’s too empty, and we’re lying to him.” Brendon’s whispers are loud in the quiet. 

Frank grabs his wrist when he gets close enough, and tugs him closer. “We’ll figure something out, Bren.”

Gabe reaches out and wraps his arms around their waists. Things will work out, somehow, and they won’t have to steal tiny fragments of time together. 

*~*~*~* 

“....The fuck? I’m not joining your weird ass orgy.”

If Gabe wasn’t devising four different worst-case scenarios and ways out of each, he’d probably be laughing his ass off at the unflattering face Spencer’s making. 

Frank leans into his shoulder and reaches for one of his french fries. They’re in a run-down diner, right off the side of the road, about half an hour away from the airport. The flight they’re booked for leaves in two hours, so they have just enough time for an early lunch before they have to jet.

“An orgy implies we’re just in it for the sex … and before you ask. No, we’re not. Plus, you’re not invited. We just thought you might want to know.” Frank punctuates it by biting into the fry he stole from Gabe’s plate. 

Brendon fidgets at the end of their booth. The three of them are crammed into one side, while Spencer has the other half to himself. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now Gabe’s stuck in the middle without much space to stretch. Lunch can’t be over quickly enough.

Spencer opens his mouth to say something, but Gabe interrupts him.

“Don’t be an asshole about this. We’re not going to molest you, and regardless of what popular belief is, we’re good at what we do. Sleeping together compromises nothing.”

Spencer glares at him. “It’s against regulations for agents to get romantically entangled with each other. That’s how mistakes get made and people die.” 

Brendon bounces on the edge of the booth’s cushion. “It’s a good thing Frank and I aren’t agents, then.”

It’s not a question, more like Brendon’s stating a fact. Gabe’s still lost as to why neither of them want to be pulled up to official agent status. They can - and have - passed all the field op tests and could be registered within two weeks of declaring their intentions to Pete or anyone else higher up the chain of command. 

However, Brendon doesn’t see the point in it. He loves being a techie, and while the action and adventure of their little rag tag team is fun, he doesn’t need - or want - the _Agent_ title. Why sign on for extra responsibilities when he can have the best of both sides already?

Frank’s done field work before, and he’s morally against putting himself through being an agent. He’d rather bitch out agents for being douche nozzles than be one of them. Gabe can understand that.

“But Gabe is.”

Spencer accusingly points a limp looking fry at him. 

“If you’re implying that the boss man needs to know, then you’re barking up the wrong tree. Pete knows and has for over a year. No one’s been shipped to Siberia, and no one’s dead.” 

Brendon rests his head on Gabe’s shoulder and snakes a hand down to steal a fry. Spencer stares down at his plate, and Gabe hopes they didn’t break him. Spencer was finally starting to adjust properly, but Brendon was right. 

He needed to know, and now he does. 

*~*~*~*

The middle of September shouldn’t be this hot. Gabe leans against the side of the house watching the guys act like assholes. Brendon’s pulling on Frank’s shoelaces while Frank kicks at him from his perch in the tree in the Way’s backyard - hell, it’s the _only_ fucking tree in their backyard. The limbs hanging over the tall-ass fence in the back corner don’t count because that tree’s just invading from another yard.

The guys have been at their game for thirty minutes. This is what happens when Gerard and Ray decide a surprise should be a _surprise_ and not something the guys get to see mid-construction. 

So, here they are.

Gabe has yet to come to anyone’s rescue, though both Brendon and Frank have yelled at him _and_ Spencer to join in on the War of Capture the Oak.

“They really _are_ little kids, sometimes.” Spencer’s sitting on the back patio with his spine pressed against the siding at a curve. 

It’s the most relaxed Gabe’s ever seen him. There’s still poise and tension coiled in his limbs, as if Spencer’s waiting for the moment other the shoe drops, and he’ll have to fight for his life. However, he’s letting himself enjoy this down time. 

It’s a good look on him.

“You want to be the one to tell them they can’t have a little harmless fun?” Gabe glances down at Spencer and shakes his head when he sees Spencer’s eyes holding a calculated measure to them. “Bromigo, you really need to fucking _relax_. There’s no need to be the Hall Monitor. Let Toro take point there for once. Have fun.”

Gabe smiles and drops his hand to Spencer’s shoulder to clasp it once before he’s shoving away from the house. “Come on. Lets go show those two how capturing a fixed point really works.”

Spencer’s look is incredulous, but he doesn’t decline the invitation. 

It takes them less than five minutes to secure the tree as theirs. 

Frank huffs and curses. Brendon makes up new rules on the fly until the backyard is divided into halves. The Agent Side and the Superior Side.

“Bren, there is no more superior side than the one you’re currently _not_ on. Sorry, thems the breaks, bunny rabbit.” Gabe chuckles when Brendon tugs his shirt off, balls it up and throws it right at Gabe’s head.

“Malicious lies. Mark my words: the Jolly Green Giant and his Matrix partner are going down.”

Gabe shakes out Brendon’s shirt only to fold it long ways and make a shitty bandana. Spencer isn’t completely amused, but he falls into the rhythm of Gabe’s lead.

He’s never amused when he’s faced with reminders of how three-fourths of his team are secretly romantically involved.

“Because throwing a shirt _is_ a strategic advantage. It doesn’t help recapture a damn tree.” As goading goes, it’s weak. Spencer gets points for sarcasm and trying, though. Gabe’s not going to complain there. 

They back up to guard the tree while Brendon and Frank flank them: Brendon on Gabe’s side, Frank on Spencer’s. Frank makes a move for the tree, and Spencer advances. Gabe knows Frank’s going to play dirty, but he doesn’t have a chance to watch because Brendon’s plastering him to the rough tree bark and reaching up to grab his shirt with one hand while he gropes Gabe with the other.

It’s distracting enough that Gabe and Brendon end up making out against the tree. Spencer yells something distant that really _isn’t_ that damn far away. Gabe’s just not paying attention to anything that isn’t Brendon’s mouth until a shoe pokes at the back of his head.

When he looks up, Frank’s smirking down at him from his perch in the lowest part of the tree that can hold him. 

“Mother _fucker_.” Gabe glances down at Brendon’s shit-eating grin and pokes him in the shoulder. “You are a cruel individual.” Then he shakes his head and starts laughing. “I approve.”

Brendon backs up and crows victoriously. 

“We win.”

Spencer scowls from the fence, where he’s busy fishing his belt from the hole Frank fed it through as a distraction tactic. “Rematch. No underhanded tactics.” He’s glaring at Gabe when he continues, “And for the love of God, Saporta, try to keep it in your pants for three seconds so they don’t win.”

There’s a chorus of _no fun_ s, and Frank punctuates his dissent with chucking his shoe at the fence. “Not happening, Spencer. We won. You guys lost. Man up.”

Spencer’s winding up to list all the reasons why they should have a rematch when the sliding glass door behind them opens, and Mikey steps out.

“Exile’s over. Gee said it’s safe to come in now. Ray doesn’t want anyone in the kitchen, though. He has the knives hostage.”

Gabe chuckles. “It’s not like we’re going to run off with the cutlery, Mikey Way.”

Mikey shrugs with one shoulder and turns to go back inside. “I guess that means you’re not helping with cutting cake. That’s, like, your loss.”

Brendon perks up at the mention of cake. He and Frank slink to Spencer’s side. They bookend him, and Gabe wants to cackle at Spencer’s dubious look when Brendon places an arm across his shoulders.

“If Gabe won’t help us attack baked goods with sharp, pointy objects, can we count on you for your support, Spencer?”

Spencer ducks under Brendon’s arm and takes a prim step away from them. “Why is there going to be cake?”

The confusion on his face is actual confusion mixed with a heavy amount of surly annoyance.

Frank shrugs. “Guess we should head in to find out. Last one inside is paying for Monday’s take-out.”

Brendon’s dashing for the sliding glass door in an instant. Frank follows him. Gabe quirks an eyebrow at Spencer when he makes no move to head in.

“I’m sure the Ways won’t mind if you stay out here and hold their fence up or _weed_ or some shit, but it isn’t going to hurt to come in.”

Spencer shoves his hands into his pockets. “Just answer the question. Why is there cake?”

Gabe sighs, shakes his head, and glances down at the ground for a second before pinning Spencer with a steady gaze. The crispy-fried grass didn’t hold any answers; not that Gabe was expecting any. Sometimes, especially times like these, he wonders what exactly happened to Spencer to turn him into this closed-off shell of a person.

But then, Gabe and the guys can’t do shit until Spencer says something. Or fucking lets them help. Until then, they’re just reaching in the dark for ways to continue easing him into things.

“Come on, Spencer. What month is it? Do you _really_ think Brendon withstood Gee’s needling for your birthday after we left last time you were over?”

Spencer stiffens. “I didn’t fucking _ask_ for a _surprise party._ ”

“Nope.” Gabe makes sure to pop the _p_ as obnoxiously as possible. It gets Spencer’s scowl to downgrade to an annoyed eye roll combined with an exaggerated sigh. “Just take it for what it is, Spencer. Let the guys celebrate getting to know you. Enjoy the presents. If anything, stay for the cake. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted a Ray Toro Birthday Special.” 

Spencer slips his hands out of his pockets and lets Gabe herd him into the living room. It’s better than nothing.

Brendon pops up from over the back of the sofa. “Happy belated birthday, Spence!” 

Frank grouches when Brendon tugs on his hair but choruses in with the mingled _happy birthday_ s coming from the rest of the room.

Gabe smiles and glances around the room. There’s a banner hanging from the ceiling that’s a Gerard Art Speciality. The _Happy Birthday_ is spelled out in crisp blue and purple hues. It’s smart and snappy. All business, but also snazzy and inviting.

It’s exactly what Spencer will eventually be if he settles a little more. Gabe laughs to himself. He’ll have to email the Ways later to tell them just how perfect everything is. 

Besides the banner, there’s not much decoration, which was a good call on Mikey’s part. No doubt Gerard would have pushed _hard_ for streamers dipped in glitter or some shit like what happened for Brendon’s birthday. 

It was glitter hell, and Gabe’s actually fucking _impressed_ that the Ways’ living room isn’t still contaminated with sparkles, especially since Ray complained for a month after clean-up about how much of a hassle it was cleaning up.

To be fair, Gabe’s pretty damn sure Ray outlawed excessive amounts of glitter in the Way house knowing that, in the end, he’d have to help cleaning up the shit, even if he doesn’t live here. Hell, Gabe would bet money that Ray made the _No Glitter_ thing an addendum to his list of things Gerard and Mikey shouldn’t bring home if only for his sanity. There are only so many times he can get phone calls about wood sanders making more noise than they should and if it would fuck with the value of the house if Gerard turned the stair banister into art.

Spencer shuffles from one foot to the other, like he doesn’t know what to do with having a party set up just for him. He doesn’t say anything for the longest. But he does track where everyone is in the room.

Gabe clears his throat and watches Spencer cut his eyes in Gabe’s direction. Gabe was _hoping_ Spencer would get the hint to say something. Maybe _thank you_. Or, you know, something politer than heavy silence.

Some assholes just have to be stubborn. Whatever. Spencer can be a dick to people who want to be nice. Gabe’s not going to come to his rescue this time. It’s not like this is Spencer’s first time meeting the guys. He knows what to expect from them now.

Gerard flails a hand and almost smacks Mikey in the chest when he gestures at the tiny mound of presents set on the coffee table. “We didn’t think you’d like anything too much.” Mikey scoffs under his breath at Gerard’s _we_ to make it clear just who had what opinion. Gerard rolls on as if it doesn’t matter. “But who doesn’t like presents and cake?”

He leaves the end of his question open, inviting. Hoping that Spencer will take the cue. For all that Gerard’s unobservant of the outside world, he’s a champ at gauging a person’s comfort level when he’s actually paying attention. It makes Gabe seriously glad Gee’s not a part of the Department. He’d be good as a rambly pointman scouting for intel, but it would strip him down to nothing.

Gabe doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to see that happen to either of the Ways or Toro. They’re good people. Normal People. They don’t resort to DIY extra lock installation when the paranoia follows them home. They haven’t had to implement staging grounds for IDs and cash to be scattered across the city in random places no one would ever dig or consider important enough to steal from after missions that go so sideways it’s a fucking wonder S&R made it back alive and they’re so far down into their own heads that the fear of _something_ happening breaths down their neck.

It’s always best to be prepared. For better or for worse. If nothing ever happens, they can go out and dig up the boxes or wander into bowling alleys and gyms for the bags left in lockers that they’ve bribed staff not to throw out. But if something does happen - if they can get back _here_ \- they won’t be starting from zero. 

And from experience, Gabe _knows_ how fucked you are if you’re at zero. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, just open your damn presents, Smith.” Frank slides off the sofa and throws a small, pink box at Spencer’s head. It’s a fancy book protector-slash-cover in a hideous shade of hot pink that’s the right size for the Department handbook Frank likes to swear is surgically attached to Spencer’s side. It also has a $100 Vanilla gift card in the middle so Spencer can go shoe shopping. 

“They’re not going to bite. I made sure Gerard didn’t buy you a pet piranha. Anything with teeth was banned.” Ray’s holding up the wall behind them. His voice is steady. Not a trace of nervousness or worry.

Spencer huffs and mumbles out something before ripping into Frank’s shitty wrap job. The box gets thrown at Frank’s head and Frank curses at him. Brendon shoves Frank some and gestures to the sofa so Spencer can sit and be the birthday boy.

“What the fuck is this?” Spencer’s handling the book cover like it’s radioactive as he makes his way to the sofa and sits.

Frank kicks Spencer’s shoe. It’s a high-priced sneaker and one of the _only_ ways he’s dressed down farther than _almost_ business casual. “What the fucking fuck does it look like, Princess? It’s a coat for your pretentious boyfriend, the Department Manual.” 

He can’t help chuckling at Frank’s mutinous tone and Spencer’s clenched jaw. Brendon, thankfully, swoops in to tap Spencer’s shoulder, very lightly, and stage whispers, “Look inside. Frankie’s actually a softie, he just doesn’t want you to know.”

Spencer shakes the gift card out of the book cover. He eyes it a moment before shifting to slide it into one of his pants’ pockets without a word. 

Frank huffs and drops to the sofa arm at Brendon’s side. 

Brendon reaches toward the coffee table and points to an electric blue gift bag with a baby blue ribbon bow attached to the side. “That’s from Gabe and me. We weren’t sure exactly what you’d like, so I did some surveillance. I hope you don’t mind.”

Spencer glances somewhat dubiously at Brendon, then cranes his head back to check on Gabe before he even begins to reach for the bag.

Gabe can attest that Brendon and he _tried_ to get Spencer something he’d use and not hate with a fiery passion. Brendon settled on setting Spencer up with a Netflix account once he realized Spencer didn’t have one. It has a year’s subscription already paid. Brendon wrote down all the information and supplied an empty flash drive for whatever memory purposes Spencer might have. Gabe went for more outdoor functionality with a pair of kick-ass sunglasses that should be impressive with both quality and badass-ness. 

They’re not cheap, and they’ll sync with Spencer’s work attire or his yuppy after work wardrobe without making him look like a douche. Instead, he’ll exude the air of a high-classed body guard. Gabe thought it was a good idea at the time, considering Frank was going with the asshole gift with a soft center, and Brendon went with hobbies and the virtual world.

Judging from the way Spencer runs a finger across the nose bridge of the glasses while obsessively trying to neatly re-fold the slip of paper Brendon hid in the generic Birthday Card one-handed, Operation Sparkly Gifts has been a success.

Gerard clears his throat and smiles broadly when Spencer looks up at him. “Mikey and I went in together. We weren’t sure what you’d like so we guessed.” 

The joint Way gifts are in a three piece set of boxes Gerard wrapped and artfully placed on the coffee table as box-like stepping stones. If stepping stones were dark purple with blue ribbon splotched with purple paint.

Spencer scoops the boxes up and opens them one at a time. The first gift is a selection of The Empire Strikes Back shirts. All three are in black and look like an estimate of Spencer’s size. Spencer quirks a there-and-then-gone smile before refolding the shirts and setting them aside. 

The second box is small and has a flashdrive Mikey filled with every Star Wars related media he could find and text Brendon about, even the apparently god awful christmas special from the ‘seventies. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that Mikey was pleased last time when he found out Spencer had a hidden love of the movies. So he thought it would be a good present when he found out Spencer didn’t own any of the series.

The last box is a hand-made birthday card with gift cards to various fast food joints spilling out of the folds. Ever since Spencer admitted to not cooking often because he didn’t like being in the kitchen alone, Frank’s been fielding questions from Gerard about the places Spencer liked to stop. It was almost like Gerard expected them to know.

Like he thought Brendon was monitoring Spencer’s credit card transactions. Which, to be fair, Brendon _wasn’t_ , not until Gerard asked. Then Brendon cracked into the system for a week and skimmed before discreetly backing out of the information without leaving a door for anyone else to trip into after he left.

Spencer, thankfully, doesn’t say anything about how appropriate the gift cards are. Instead, he sets everything to his side and thanks Mikey and Gerard for the gifts.

It’s genuine.

Gabe doesn’t know what to do with that information so he keeps it to himself and watches as Ray pushes off the wall and hands Spencer an envelope. 

“It’s not a formal college class. But whenever you’re free, drop by, and we’ll pick through recipes until you find something you want to make.”

A week ago, Gabe wouldn't have the slightest idea what Ray’s talking about. Of everyone involved in this little _surprise_ , Ray was the only one not divulging any of his ideas. Last night, Brendon had leaned against Gabe while they were in bed and whispered that Ray hand wrote tickets for free cooking lessons so Spencer would have someone in the kitchen with him without feeling like he was asking for a handout or fishing for friendships.

Spencer frowns a little at the envelope when he thumbs through it. He glances up at Ray. The look on his face is one Gabe doesn’t know how to translate. It almost seems _naked_. Like Ray’s gift has flayed Spencer open.

“I’ll keep that under advisement, Ray. Thank you.” Spencer nods his head. His voice is slightly gruff but not from irritation. It’s something new. “Gabe said I should stay for the cake. That you make one hell of one. I thought you should know he played up the anticipation.”

Ray laughs. As does Gerard.

“Of course, Gabe did. He does whatever he can to get cake. Come on, Spence, The cake’s in the kitchen. You get to cut it with the shiniest knife we have.”

With that, Ray vanishes into the kitchen without a second glance at anyone. It’s a gift few have. Gabe’s really fucking glad Ray doesn’t know about his potential, or he’d be a hot commodity. 

Spencer glances at Gabe, and Gabe shrugs before grinning. It’s cake time. Gabe _knows_ Spencer’s going to come away addicted.

*~*~*~*

Working extractions in November can be a toss-up of weather phenomenon, mostly depending on where you are. You either have ice, snow, slush, or winter monsoons if you’re in the western hemisphere or there’s the grab-bag of the eastern hemisphere. On the plus side, they’re still American bound so there’s no compound issues of cultural whiplash.

However, being stuck in the Great Lakes region is pretty much a negative. Gabe’s never worked for the Chicago branch, but his team is pulling an assist since one of their high priority agents went missing after an op tanked. Intel has it that they’re being held captive. Yet, no one in the Chicago department can, apparently, find and infiltrate the secured location.

Hence Director Wentz sending out his S&R team to get the job done. They’ve spent three days in the wind and the chill bouncing from _search_ mode into _rescue_ mode eerily efficiently. Gabe doesn’t know if its that the Chicago branch is more attuned to more veiled political operations or if they just suck at rescuing kidnapped agents because it’s barely three p.m. and Gabe’s in the process of leaving the rendezvous point after Agent Lundio’s safe return. 

Frank’s waiting at the rental, leaning against the driver’s door with his phone out, when Gabe and Spencer stroll up.

“It’s about damn time you two assholes showed up. If my balls freeze off, I’m murdering the both of you. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s fucking perfect that we _never_ get winter jobs somewhere exotic and tropical. When we get back, I’m sending Pete a fucking email about how living on the east coast most of my life _doesn’t_ instantly equate to only giving us fucking cold-ass locations for ops.” 

“You fucking hate sand, Frankie. And you wouldn’t know what to do with a tropical paradise. You’re too much of a grumpy gnome to bond with palm trees and scenic beaches.” Gabe can’t help but goad. 

All Frank ever does is complain about sand. But then, Gabe can understand the reasoning. Frank spent too long on the Defense Department’s leash out in barren wastelands to really have a taste for hot, sandy locales.

Frank punches his shoulder and moves to get into the rental “You two assholes better fucking buckle in fucking quick, or I’m leaving your asses. Brendon says we have check-in in an hour, and I’d really fucking _like_ to be at the airport by then, fuck you very much.”

Gabe laughs and moves around the back of the SUV to get in behind Brendon. Glancing backwards after he slides into position reveals that all their equipment is still with them, including their more experimental gear. 

Which is reassuring. 

They haven’t left anything behind. Brendon’s testing out a new tensile strength of rope, and Frank would throw a gnome tantrum of flying shoes if he wasn’t able to complete his final stages of field testing on a chemical that only selectively eats through distinct materials that doesn’t include their ropes or rappelling gear. 

Spencer clicks his seatbelt with a tone of brisk functionality. “I still do not want to be in your secret orgy, Iero.” 

Frank turns the engine over, changes gears, and punches the gas before flipping Spencer off. “We’re still not fucking offering. You can happily stick to jizzing all over the Department manual during wank night. I won’t even fucking cry into my hands over never seeing your naked ass.”

“Thank the Lord for _small_ favors. I don’t want to see your ass either.”

Brendon giggles from the front passenger seat. “Just so everyone knows, we’re clean. No tails, no bugs, no trackers. Another mission successfully accomplished without property _or_ vehicular damages. VICTORY.”

Gabe snickers when Brendon’s closed fists enthusiastically bump the roof of the cabin. “We might have to reassess that no vehicular damages thing if you accidentally punch a hole in the upholstery.”

“You’re no fun.” Brendon twists in his seat and leans into the back so he can tug on Gabe’s hair. His pout is only for show.

Frank slows at a yellow light instead of speeding through it. “We can explore the _fun_ options once home.”

Spencer groans. “No dirty talk while on missions. Or anywhere in the vicinity of my person.”

Brendon turns his pout on Spencer. “Can a person’s body be a separate entity extracted from their consciousness?” 

Gabe can see the moment he goes from ridiculous to actively curious. 

So can Spencer, from the way his eyes track Brendon in a cycled spectrum of confused to incredulous. Like it doesn’t phase him once he catches the meaning.

“You’d have to define what concepts encompass _consciousness_ , _personhood_ , and _body_. Then what rules govern the hypothetical.”

Frank lays on the horn long enough to get curses from surrounding drivers - it’s always amusing when he flips people off for his own actions. It effectively breaks off the conversation before it can get heated. Which is wont to happen lately. If Spencer has an opinion on a question Brendon asks, he’ll take the opposite position and point out all of the reasonable rules on why something improbable can never happen after setting up the parameters in a way that makes it seem as if he’s going to agree.

“The last fucking thing anyone should _ever_ let you make up, Smith, are _rules_. You love them too damn much, and if we can’t fucking talk about sex, you can’t romance your hard-on for regulations.”

The radio is cut on right after. Loud music blaring in the absence of conversation. It drowns out any prospective rebuttal. Brendon leans back into his seat, one hand tapping through screens on his handheld while the other darts out to effectively change the rental’s station to something a little less hardcore metal.

Spencer nods his head with the beat. He’s not singing. Yet. It’s the next point on Gabe’s list of goals for successful integration. With luck, maybe their days of Spencer requesting a transfer are over.

*~*~*~*

Gabe’s in the kitchen collecting beers when there’s a knock on the front door. The sound is precise and only comes once. Only Spencer would knock like that. Gabe grins while closing the fridge with his elbow.

Frank gets to the door first. “Smith, nice of you to show up.” The grump is underlaid with a slight pleased tone. 

Gabe happily hums under his breath as he walks into the living room to set their beers down. He waves one of Frank’s bottles in Spencer’s direction. “You want a beer, bromigo?”

Spencer eyes the bottle with contempt. Gabe doesn’t take issue with it. Not like Frank does. 

“Don’t fucking tell me your straight edge, dickhole. I’ve never fucking met an asshole agent that didn’t drink while off-job, even the manual masturbaters like to get trashed on Miller or Busch.” 

There’s the sound of a key in the lock - as well as a text message buzzing Gabe’s phone - before Spencer can cattily reply to Frank’s challenge.

Brendon pushes the door open and slips in before closing it and sliding all the locks into place one-handedly. 

“I was victorious. All the Corona belong to me.” He hefts the box of 12 bottles a few inches higher to punctuate his victory. After that, he goes to the coffee table, sets the box down, and tears into it to pull three bottles out. It’s only then that he acknowledges that Spencer’s in the room with them “Hi, Spence. You want summer in a bottle? They’re far superior to Frank and Gabe’s stupid _boring_ beers.”

Spencer sets the three pizza boxes he brought with him on the opposite side of the coffee table. “Only one.”

Brendon crows and passes Spencer a bottle before vanishing into the kitchen with the rest of his box.

“Fuck you, asshole. My beer isn’t goddamn boring.” Frank yells at Brendon’s back.

Gabe chuckles. “People like what they like, Frankie.” Then he turns to Spencer. “I would have never pegged you as a Corona man.”

Spencer shrugs and drops down to sit in the armchair Gabe moved closer to the sofa before he showed up for movie afternoon. 

He’s unlacing his shoes, pulling them off, and sliding them under the chair as he answers. “Ryan has the most ridiculous taste in alcohol. You don’t even know. If it isn’t imported or expensive, he won’t buy it.”

Frank scoffs. “Asshole sounds like a pretentious dick.”

Gabe shakes his head and shoves Frank toward the sofa. “Don’t be a yappy ankle bitter, Frankie. Play nice.”

Frank growls. In less than a second he’s reached up and dragged Gabe down to sit next to him on the sofa. “You want me to play nice?”

His voice is mock sweetness, all white teeth at the edges. Before he can pin Gabe to the cushions, there’s a fleece throw draped over his head.

Brendon laughs like an asshole at Frank’s spluttered _traitor_. “You’ll get over it, Frankie. It’s team bonding time. Sorry, Spencer. He’s not completely house-trained, yet.”

Frank tosses the throw behind the sofa. “Fuck you, B.”

Spencer pulls out a swiss army knife and uses the bottle cap attachment to pop the cap to his Corona. “My vote is for you three to not start a sexcapade as _team bonding._ ”

Brendon beams. “ _Rise of the Guardians_ it is then. After, you get next pick.”

Frank grumbles about having to sit through an animated feature. Gabe can see the moment he’s about to demand the team watch a classic B-horror flick.

“ _Spencer_.” Brendon’s voice is pointed. “You can pick from anything in our library, digital or disc. Unless you’d _rather_ pass your turn to Frank. You can if you want.”

Spencer’s grin is gleeful around the lip of his beer. He tips the bottle back and takes a swallow, stretching out the moments while Frank swears.

Gabe can’t help but laugh. “Bromigo, if you don’t answer soon, Frankie’s going to pretend that no answer is an acquisition.”

Frank shoves Gabe’s shoulder while Brendon sets up the movie and moves to pilfer through the pizza boxes for his vegetarian option, handing Spencer his meat lover’s special while leaving Gabe and Frank’s vegan pie untouched when he discovers that the veggie lover’s box is at the bottom .

“You guys have Episode V, right?”

Brendon nods. 

Frank shakes his head. “No, we are _not_ watching _Star Wars._ _Again._ ”

“Frankie, hobbit of dwarvish temperament, if Spencer wants to commune with the Ways telepathically through their mutual love of Lucas’ space opera, then that’s what we’re watching next.”

Frank huffs and snatches the vegan pizza box from the pile to hoard for himself. “I’m not fucking sharing now, asshole. You can go get your own.”

Gabe rolls his eyes.

It isn’t true. Frank’ll end up passing one of the bigger slices over - begrudgingly - the moment the movie crawls past the opening credits. He’s the biggest softie on the inside.

Brendon settles on Gabe’s other side, passing out beers with a mock air of put-upon-ness before sitting back with his pizza and Corona. After the whole production of set up, they all settle down for Brendon’s pick of animated glory. 

Twenty minutes in, Brendon recasts them all as the main characters while Frank snarkily tries to con Spencer into being their platonic _date_ for the Way-Toro Christmas-slash-New Year’s party they’re throwing the last week of December.

There’s bound to be contraband glitter confetti. Gabe can’t wait. Hopefully, they won’t have to miss it.

*~*~*~*

The lab door crashes into the wall when it’s shoved open without any warning, seeing as Spencer’s key card unlocks Brendon’s extra electronic locks. Gabe looks up from the file he’s been browsing for the past half hour. Frank nearly drops the vials of chemical he’s putting away in their travel case. Brendon’s head snaps up from his computer screen.

Spencer storms in with a dark weather cloud forming over his head. Gabe can almost picture the streaks of lightning and swirls of wind. 

“No one’s authorized to do anything. The Nevada office has to fend for itself. Wentz says they’re afraid there was a protocol breach of epic proportions, and there’s no predicting how bad it is. We have to wait until the dust settles for a couple of days before we can do _anything_.”

Gabe watches Spencer’s fists clench and unclench, only for his fingers to curl into his palms again a second later. He’s pacing the tiny space of the lab, and the sounds of his steps mingle with the clack of keys as Brendon types something out as quick as a stiff breeze across his keyboard.

“He said we don’t even know the casualty list yet. Nor do we know who got taken. Fuck all this bureaucratic bullshit! I can’t just sit down  
and act casual and be told to not do anything.”

Spencer’s left hand creeps up to his hairline and tugs some of the strands while he continues to pace back and forth. Back and forth. 

He’s not taking it well that his old department got raided by unknown hostiles. Hostiles who killed agents and regular staff alike and have apparently kidnapped others from the Department. 

Brendon makes a small _oh_ sound as his typing speeds up. After several minutes, his fingers slow, and his right hand moves to the touch pad so he can click something. 

“I think I have an unofficial head count from the Nevada office. It’s very raw, and there’s bound to be a million and one inaccuracies .”

The moment the sheets of paper start to print off in the far corner - on the shitty printer Brendon fixed up so they wouldn’t have to go to the actual lab for their print outs - Spencer stalks over and snatches up the sheets as they slip out. 

“Rosco, dead… Miller, dead... Cosle, injured… Greaves, accounted for... Ross, MIA… Walker, MIA...”

Spencer’s muttering off names from the list as he skims. When he gets to the last two, he leans heavily against the tiny strip of barren wall between the printer and one of the tables cluttered with junk before sliding down the wall and burying his head in his hands. Ross and Walker must be friends of his.

Gabe doesn’t know Spencer’s life story. He’d only started opening up with tales of home and his friends a few weeks ago. All Gabe knows is that Spencer’s slowly been drifting away from his best friend for years, but he still considers the guy the brother he never had. 

There’s history there and singed bridges, no doubt. 

That doesn’t make the situation easier to deal with, especially since S&R technically can’t do anything about what’s happening. Unless they’re given the orders to start searching for the missing and/or kidnapped, they’re grounded. Throwing together a half-assed rescue attempt without an order will make them rogue. 

Nothing good ever comes from going rogue. 

However, what’s happening is a prime example of the type of case-slash-mission-slash-op their crew would run. They can’t _not_ do something. Realistically, though, there’s no telling what’s happening in real time. Which makes the task all the more dangerous. 

What they’re about to do is a ridiculously bad idea. Not only is it risky as fuck with the potential to get them all killed, but they could all get fired and thrown in jail on criminal charges, up to and including: inhibiting a crime scene, disobeying orders, and a myriad of other various offenses that could be thrown at them. Needless to say, the fallout will be messy. They all know this, but the three of them talked while Spencer went to yell at Pete for being a dictator over ordering them to stand down. 

There’s really no other option. 

There never was. If they don’t go, there’s a possibility Spencer might try his luck alone. Going into that brand of hell solo is never a fucking sane idea. 

Fuck, this is what they’ve been made for. They should go for it. Balls to the wall.

Brendon scoots his chair backwards as silently as possible before setting to work packing up his laptop. When it’s secure, he moves on to sifting through the scraps littering the junk table, nimble fingers selecting random bits and bobbles of things Gabe can’t even begin to parse out. Spencer doesn’t move from his spot and acts as if he doesn’t realize Frank’s pulling open shelves in the chemicals cabinet or that Brendon’s collecting parts not even feet from where he’s sitting. 

None of the guards will even take a second glance about any of them taking home their work. After all, they have the proper paperwork. Their apartment has half finished projects scattered about and has for at least half a year. It’s only a matter of slipping out with a lie of taking Spencer with them for a round of _lets get wasted and forget this is happening_ without running into Pete or anyone else who might figure out what they’re planning.

When Brendon’s done packing the tiny parts into the side compartment of his messenger bag, he moves until he’s standing in front of Spencer. He kneels and reaches for the crumpled sheaf of paper clenched in Spencer’s hands.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay.”

Spencer laughs darkly in Brendon’s face and doesn’t let go of the page.

“What he means is that we’re going to go find them. If you want to stay here and fall apart that’s up to you.”

Frank’s voice is hard and stony, but it breaks through Spencer’s defences, and he looks up.

“Why?” The question is simple enough. 

“Because they’re friends of yours, and you’re one of ours.”

Gabe doesn’t know why he’s the one to speak, but that doesn’t make the words any less true. Spencer might still be somewhat aloof around them at times, but that doesn’t discredit that he _is_ one of them, and if his friends are in trouble, then they’re going to do something about it. Because they can. 

*~*~*~* 

Spencer’s sitting in their living room watching the wall. Gabe doesn’t need to walk into the room to be able to mentally picture it. Sure, the television’s on, playing some useless infomercial, but that doesn’t mean that Spencer’s paying any attention to what’s flickering on the screen. If he had it his way, they’d already be moving toward Nevada. 

Leaving right away is more than risky; it’s fucking stupid. Someone is going to call the land line within the next couple hours to make sure Spencer’s still with them. Even if the security guards at work didn’t think about them rushing off to save the day, they’ll tell Pete about the four of them leaving together, and Pete will get curious. If they’re not around for the call, things could get confusing and harder to deal with than it’s already shaping up to be.

If they wait until morning, there’s hope that Gabe can call in a few favors and get them a private flight. The less contact they have with public airports and places with easily accessed cameras, the better. Brendon’s also going to need time to fit up dummy accounts for them to use under aliases they haven’t tapped into before. This time, they’re going to have to pay out of pocket. And while money isn’t exactly an issue, it’s safer to have a safety net to fall on if they have it, even if said safety net could technically be considered credit fraud. 

Frank’s pulling out their spare duffels, shoving the barest necessity of clothing and toiletries into the bags. After that, he goes for the extra length of dyed red nylon they keep hidden in the closet, just in case of an emergency. The small black case they keep around with tools like wire cutters, a hammer, and several different screwdrivers - amongst other things - gets shoved into the duffel with the rope sitting at the bottom. 

Gabe should be helping, but he’s sitting in the center of their bed, staring at the shitty burner cell phone they’ve been using as a communication device outside of work. Brendon’s still a paranoid fucker, and he’d been adamant about them not texting Gerard, Mikey, or Ray with their personal phones. It isn’t beyond the pale for something to compromise them and then their phones could lead whomever’s looking in the right direction to people who don’t need to be pulled into the mire.

Gabe should just text Bill and get this over with, but instead of typing anything into the message box, Gabe watches Brendon take out portions of his work computer and set them on the dresser’s smooth surface. 

Once he’s done, Brendon places the shell of the laptop into a lead safety box. When that’s finished, he hefts the box into his arms and walks out of the room. If Gabe followed him into the kitchen, he’d see Brendon use the gaudy-as-fuck, flamingo magnet on their freezer door to pull up the corner tile in the pantry closet. The hiding place was Frank’s idea, and Brendon had kissed him solidly across the lips that day, when he was being paranoid about someone finding things he couldn’t ghost or take with him if they had to disappear.

Instead of following, Gabe gives up staring at the tiny cell screen, and just types in a cryptic as fuck message. _penguins cnt fly, culd use a frnd_. Hopefully, William hasn’t changed his emergency number. It’s been years, though, so there are no promises there. 

The phone in the living room rings. Spencer answers it. Gabe can hear his voice through the open bedroom door. Brendon’s voice enters into the fray about a minute later, and Gabe gets up to wander into the living room and talk to Pete himself.

“Sure thing, boss. Gotcha.”

Brendon clicks his tongue at the end of his sentence and shoves the phone into Gabe’s hand before slipping back into the kitchen, probably to make sure nothing looks amiss. 

If they’re lucky, when Pete finds out they’re gone, he’ll send someone like Pruitt or Evans to sweep their place. The last thing their boss needs is for word to spread around the office that his Search and Rescue team are sleeping together. That would fuck up his rep with Owens even more than it already is. 

The last thing their office needs is for Pete to get forced into resigning over them. A lot of good people have jobs and security because Pete was willing to take a chance on them. Without him, the Department would be dismantled and everyone parceled out like party favors. 

“For the love of everything good in the world, don’t do something stupid. I don’t trust Smith to not talk Urie or Iero into some idiotic stunt. Give things a few days, let the Nevada office regroup, and then we’ll figure something out.”

Pete sounds exhausted, and there’s a good chance he hasn’t been sleeping much,again. He cycles between something akin to a normal schedule and various versions of dangerous that cap at his implosive reaction to thinking Patrick was dead last year.

“I’ll make sure no one pulls anything moronic. We’re just going to lay low for a few days. Spencer’s going to stay with us.”

Frank walks into the living room with the duffels and silently places them in front of the bookcase near their front door. Gabe tracks his movements. Brendon slips up to him and adds his secondary messenger bag to the pile. It’s sure to have his personal laptop securely fastened inside, along with a selection of tech tools and a roll-up keyboard. Brendon doesn’t like to take his work computer with him on missions, and this is personal laptop number five since they first started missions. 

Brendon and Frank kiss quickly before Frank pulls away to take the phone from Gabe’s hand.

“Get some sleep, Wentz. That’s what we’re going to do.”

Frank hangs up, and Spencer goes back to staring at the wall. At least he doesn’t say something ridiculous like _you don’t have to be doing this_. Frank would have thrown something at him if he did, and that would start a fight they have no time for. 

Brendon drifts to the bedroom, and Frank follows him. Spencer continues to blankly gaze at the wall. Gabe could sit down and try to talk to him, but this could be the last night he’s in his apartment with his outrageously hot boyfriends. 

The steps the four of them are about to take will change everything. There’s no way around that. They rock the boat, there’s bound to be waves. It’s best to have one more good memory to hang onto if everything falls to pieces around them.

*~*~*~* 

The sound of a tinny Mariachi band pulls him from sleep. Gabe has to fumble for the secondary cell phone. Luckily, he’s on the outside with Brendon curled in the middle and Frank spooned up behind him. It’s four A.M. and the only light slipping into the room is the warm yellow from the hall’s night light.

Gabe swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up. There’s a new text asking to be opened. He presses the center button on the phone’s directional pad. 

_wtch crk 9cntrl. hv wngs_. There’s no name attached, but that doesn’t mean anything. 

Witch Creek is several hours away. Brendon snuffles sleepily against his back and wraps warm arms around his waist. Frank crawls up next to him and kicks his legs out so he’s mirroring Gabe’s posture.

“Time to go?”

Frank’s voice is muffled and shot through with drowsiness. Gabe wants to pin him to the covers and kiss him awake. Doing that would put them behind, though. Brendon shuffles to his other side and throws his legs over the edge, so the three of them are sitting in a line at the side of the bed. The two of them lean against him, sleep mussed hair sticking to his skin when their heads rest against his shoulders.

Their bedroom door creaks open and more light spills in. Spencer’s standing in the doorway just staring at them. He’s always a bit grumpy about their relationship and its disregard of Department regulations, but it’s become snark fodder more than anything else. Except for times like this, apparently.

“We need to leave by five. Witch Creek isn’t the easiest place to get to.” Gabe’s voice is scratchy from sleep, and his words sound washed out and too soft to his ears. 

Brendon mumbles something incomprehensible into his shoulder before lurching forward and stumbling away. He scrubs a hand through his hair once and bends to switch on the lamp that sits on their nightstand. 

Spencer vanishes from the doorway to change into clothing more suitable to travel. Frank gets up and goes to the closet to find something to wear. As soon as everyone’s dressed, they’ll leave, and Gabe will lock up. 

*~*~*~* 

Sunlight bounces off the cracked and faded asphalt. It’s mildly blinding even for winter. Thankfully, Gabe has his shades with him - the ones that Brendon always makes fun of, saying they make him look like some sort of douche-y frat boy.

The private air strip at Witch Creek hasn’t changed much. The squat buildings and solitary hanger haven’t been repainted, giant portions of the walls shaded grey or flaked and faded a dirty, _grimy_ white. It’s a wonder that the place is still operational. None of the money that filters into the location goes towards basic building maintenance. Profit goes into keeping the planes in working order and the pilots paid and happy. 

William had tried to explain it to him once, and Gabe had been too buzzed to really care what Bill was saying. It wasn’t like he was planning on joining William with his work anyway, so it didn’t matter if he listened or not. The gist is that the air strip runs flights for those who don’t want to dip into the general populace. Business men to con men and pretty much anyone or everyone in between who can either pay the fee or have favors to cash in. 

Technically, William doesn’t exist. He’s a ghost who owes Gabe a million and one favors for all the times he kept Bill from accidentally getting himself killed during college. Not that William went to college with Gabe; he was just the lanky fucker who worked at one of the local gas stations under an assumed name because his father thought it was best that he learn real world experience outside of eventually running things at Witch Creek. 

Ghost or not, Gabe’s here to collect.

There’s the sound of a sputtering motor to their left and a battered golf cart rolls across the asphalt in their direction. The golf cart looks old and over-used. Brendon’s eyeing it with interest, his fingers itching with the need to work on the technical aspects of the mechanics. When the cart gets close, the driver kills the engine, gets out, and walks up to them. 

It’s been _at least_ ten years since Gabe last saw Bill, and the guy hasn’t changed much besides the obvious signs of age that like to creep up on everyone. He’s still the willowy stick of a guy Gabe met when he was nineteen. The haircut’s new, though, short hair replacing the length that William used to be fond of.

He’s pulled into a brief hug. Once William backs away, he introduces himself to everyone with the name he gave Gabe back when they first met. 

“You’ve been to Munchkin Land I see. Please, tell me you’re not asking to go see a wizard.”

Frank’s about to say something scathing and sarcastic when Spencer jumps in.

“We need to go to Nevada. As quick as you can manage.”

Gabe’s mildly impressed by how normal Spencer sounds. It’s not overly demanding, nor is it as harsh as it wants to be. There’s still a steel backbone to the words, and William looks from Spencer to Gabe twice before speaking.

“This isn’t about the _Cobra_ , is it? Because I really don’t think you’re going to find answers in the desert.”

Brendon bounces on the balls of his feet and fiddles with the strap of his messenger bag. “Cobras aren’t indigenous to North America.”

Gabe shakes his head and mutters under his breath about never being able to live that one bad acid trip down.

“It’s always best to just say _no_.” Frank smiles around his words and adjusts his grip on the duffel he’s carrying. 

William decides that standing around in the morning sun and winter chill isn’t going anywhere, so he shows them to the first squat building, leaving the golf cart where he parked it. He motions to the breakroom when they finally shuffle in, just in case they want coffee.

The coffee’s awful, yet somehow it’s still better than some of the garbage Gabe’s had over the past couple years. Motel instant coffee is always shitty, as is hospital coffee if you can get your hands on some. It all comes in varying degrees of goddamn awful and so weak it could put an infant to sleep. The breakroom’s brew would probably rate a could-peel-metal-off-of-a-lead-wall on the list if Gabe was inclined to tack it to the collection of experiences he’s had with truly vile tasting coffee.

A chair slides across the tiles with a god-awful shriek, and Spencer leans the uncomfortable metal against the fake wood paneling of the wall before sitting with his back against the warped brown paneling. It gives him a clear view of the open doorway. 

William goes to search for their pilot while Brendon and Frank claim the other two chairs. Gabe decides to give up on his crappy paper cup of nasty coffee. He tips the brown liquid into the staff sink and tosses the paper cup into the bin labeled, _please recycle, I mean it this time. RECYCLE._ with black sharpie scrawled across the white duct tape stretching the width of the gray bin. 

As soon as the crumpled cup vanishes, Gabe decides to follow William. Bill’s going to want an explanation, and best to field his questions solo. William’s never understood Gabe’s taste in people, and he can sometimes be unknowingly insensitive just because he doesn’t get it. 

*~*~*~* 

“He thought you’d started a harem of albino Smurfs or something equally ridiculous?” 

Brendon’s laughing his ass off the best he can while still being buckled into his seat. Frank smirks, and Spencer pretends that he’s not listening in on their conversation, though, it’s obvious he wants to say something dry and sarcastic. All in all, it’s par for the course.

“Did you tell him that you’re actually part of our harem?” Frank’s voice is steady, and the only thing giving away the mirth behind the statement is the smirk playing across his lips.

Brendon tilts his head in mock confusion before grinning around his words. “But we don’t have a harem. Even if you count Spencer, which no one should, there’s still not enough bodies to constitute a proper head count for something like that.”

More laughter spills into the air around them when Gabe can’t help but laugh. “Bren, how the fuck do you know how many people equal the standard harem’s size? It’s not like that’s something you could find on the net. Though, knowing your way with surfing and digging, maybe you did.” 

Brendon beams before snickering through a cheerful comment of _wouldn’t you like to know_. 

Spencer shuffles his feet against the matted-down carpet under his seat and looks out the window. His voice bounces off the reinforced glass when he speaks. “Do we even have a plan?”

And just like that, the carefree mood shatters into a thousand tiny pieces around them. It’s a good question, but up until this moment, they’ve been pretending that today’s just like any other mission. 

Gabe knows that’s what he’s been doing. If he dwells too much on what they’re doing, he might fuck up because he’ll focus on what’s going to happen _after_ , not what’s in front of them. There’s no way he’s optimistic enough to think they’re going to be considered heroes. They’re going to get reprimanded no matter what the outcome is, short of them being killed. 

The best case scenario is that they save the day, get toted back to the Department, and put on unpaid, long term suspension before being split off and sent to different sub-departments, if they’re not outright fired and shoved into jail cells. 

Worst case: they don’t make it out at all. 

“Well, we can’t go snooping around the Nevada office without someone getting wise and picking us up. So that means any information gathering will have to be done remotely, and we just hope a hell-of-a-fucking-lot that whomever pulled this level of terrorism hasn’t strayed too far from their kill.”

Spencer continues to stare out the plane’s window. Gabe doesn’t know if he’s thought this through or not. Knowing his habit of combing through every last little detail, he probably has. 

“We’ll pay cash for a shitty motel room an hour outside of the compromised radius. Brendon’ll work his technological voodoo across all of the channels he can squirrel his way into and then once we have an idea of what we’re dealing with, we’ll come up with something a little more airtight.”

The stiff nod Spencer gives Gabe is as much of an acknowledgement as he’s going to get. After that, there’s not really anything else to say or do. Whatever good mood was clinging to them earlier is long gone and the cabin lapses into silence. 

*~*~*~* 

The motel they check into is a shit hole - like epic standards of slumming - but serves its purpose. The building’s set off from the road and has an internet connection Brendon can hack into. As long as the place doesn’t cave in around them, how run down their room is won’t be an issue. 

Spencer claims the bed closest to the door, his duffel sinking into the thin-ass comforter stretched across what looks to be a lumpy-as-fuck excuse for a mattress. Frank places his equipment and personal duffel on top of the covers of the far bed, and Gabe follows suit. Brendon fidgets at the door for half a second before closing it behind him, throwing all the locks into place, and going to the rickety table shoved near the dented and sagging AC unit. His stuff gets dropped around the base of the table like autumn leaves fallen at the trunk of an oak tree.

They haven’t talked about who’s sharing. Normally, they’d pay for two rooms and rotate between who’s with whom. However, that’s a detail that could be flagged if anyone’s watching the system. It’s one of those habitual things that can get them caught. 

The beds are large enough for three people if it comes to that, but Gabe’s not going to bring it up first. They won’t be catching any sleep for at least twelve hours. They can cross that bridge when they get to it. 

After about fifteen minutes of set up, Brendon starts typing, and the sound of keystrokes mingles with the asthmatic wheeze of the beat-to-shit AC. Frank goes through his travel case, making sure nothing’s leaked or been damaged in any way. Spencer lays out tools and weapons to make sure they’re clean and functional. 

It’s just like any other mission, even though, it’s really not. Gabe should be checking over his gun to ensure it doesn’t need to be cleaned or doing something constructive with his time. Instead, he unlocks the motel door and steps outside.

*~*~*~* 

One day bleeds into the second, and Brendon’s still following vague trails and trace clues that he’s been stealthily picking up from his hacked connection into the Nevada office’s systems. The only lead they have is an inkling that M.A.N.D.I. is involved. Spencer doesn’t think the organization would do something this high profile when snatching single agents or sabotaging missions they stumble upon is more their M.O. while Frank keeps interjecting that Roliki’s motives aren’t always that clean-cut. 

Gabe’s seen enough of Roliki’s side projects from before the organization to think it could possibly be his handiwork. The guy’s got a massive grudge against the privatized spy sector of national security. This isn’t the first time he’s done something to fuck with a Department’s stability, even if he’s never gone this far before.

The Nevada office is still firmly of the thought that there’s some new terrorist cell that’s formed. Not that any of the information has leaked to the press to say otherwise. The story’s been shoved so far under wraps that the only info they can get is coming from the computers and cameras at the Nevada office itself. 

The ones that are operational again, that is. 

Brendon makes a frustrated sigh before pushing his chair away from his computer. Normally, this would be the moment the three of them make out for a few minutes just to calm down, but with Spencer sitting on his bed surrounded by maps of the adjacent areas, that’s really not an option. 

Well, it could be an option. They’ve been trying to be respectful, especially since Spencer’s been casting a blind eye to them sharing a bed. In fact, he’d been the one last night to glare at them and tell them where to sleep when Brendon had gotten too fidgety to research and dig anymore for the time being. That doesn’t mean they haven’t been stealing kisses behind Spencer’s back whenever they can get away with it because they can’t not when the opportunity presents itself. 

Brendon’s about to take a step away from his laptop when he stills and curses under his breath. In a flash, he’s dropping back down into the motel chair and pulling the computer closer so he can type something into whatever program he’s running. 

“So, the camera feeds mostly short out when the shit hits the fan. Whoever was working the systems knew how to get in. But to do so they’d need to be on site first. I’ve been using the backdoor Russell put into the backup standardized office setup to watch the computers’ saved data on the feeds.”

He pauses to click something on the screen, and Gabe goes from standing about staring at the truly horrid flowery wallpaper of the far wall to sitting on the edge of their bed while Brendon watches something move across the laptop’s screen. When he’s finished, Brendon gingery picks up the laptop and sits next to Gabe. He sets the warm casing on one of Gabe’s thighs, supporting the rest of the weight across the knee pressing against Gabe’s hip.

“At first, I thought this frame right here was just a distort right before everything goes ape shit. It’s not. Whoever got past the guards knew where the cameras were and kept to the blind spots, except for this one when he was slipping through one of the system’s cracks.”

Gabe watches the ten seconds of footage and tries to pay attention when it loops back on itself. Brendon must have isolated the scene. Spencer folds one of his maps and moves from his mattress so he can lean across Brendon to squint at the screen. Frank crawls down from his spot by the warped headboard and rests his weight against Brendon and Gabe’s shoulders to peer down at the laptop’s tiny screen.

At about five seconds in, Brendon points to the bottom left corner of the screen. “Seriously, I didn’t think it was anything important, but it was bugging me, so I cut it out and started poking at it. And if I slow it down...”

A click later, the clip freezes to an almost crawl, and Gabe notices the blur of black. Brendon types a command into the computer. The video clip vanishes, and in its place is a fuzzy picture of the ink. It’s a tattoo. A very familiar tattoo. 

“Zelly.” Frank speaks before Gabe can. 

Brendon nods and goes still at Gabe’s side. Zelly’s one of Roliki’s closest associates. When Roliki decided he wanted a more hands on approach to M.A.N.D.I., Zelly and several others backed his mutiny. Hell, in the last year and a half, M.A.N.D.I. and Roliki have been the cause of a third of all rescue missions they’ve been running. 

Methods Against the National Defense Industry prides themselves on trying to expose the private contractors who work under a blanket of nondisclosure to keep the country safe. M.A.N.D.I. believes that only the government itself should have that power. Roliki, however, is an extremist, who doesn’t think even the government should be working behind closed doors. Before joining up, he pulled off some pretty nasty plots with Zelly following along for the ride. 

It’s not too much of a stretch to see this as one of his plans. 

Zelly’s the man behind their computers. He’s a tactful hacker who’s had no qualms about making it obvious that he wants to drag Brendon into their crowd ever since the rescue mission last September went bogus and Brendon had to improvise to get them and the abducted agents out. Which means this wasn’t an accident, his tattoo getting caught by the camera. 

“They’re hoping we show up.”

Spencer whips his head around from the computer screen to look at them. Most good agents know about M.A.N.D.I. and its new leadership, but they have very little experience with the organization. Or if they do, they’re not told about it when their missions go belly-up and S&R gets called in to clean up the mess. Since March, Spencer’s run - _maybe_ \- five missions with them that have officially dealt with the group, and those were never anything more than the opportunistic snatch and grab M.A.N.D.I. likes so much. 

He wasn’t around for September of last year. It’s a fucking wonder they haven’t had to deal with worse since then. Not that saving other agents is an easy matter. But this? It skirts on being personal.

“It’s not a trap. It’s an invitation, if we’re around to catch a glimpse of the offer. Zelly’s got a hard on for Brendon’s tech skills.”

The laptop shuts with a heavy click. Pictures of glittery smiley faces stare up at them.

“Like Roliki wouldn’t love a chance to also convert you two.”

Frank pitches his weight forward, resting his head against Brendon’s shoulder more solidly than Gabe’s and whispers words into Brendon’s neck that Gabe can barely pick up.

“I’m not much for anarchy these days.”

There’s the sound of the motel’s door locks being undone before the door closes. When Gabe looks up, Spencer’s gone. Brendon leans forward to place his computer on the ground. The moment he’s done, Frank pulls him up the bed until they’re both lying on their sides on top of the comforter, facing each other. Gabe lets himself fall backwards, and Frank rolls Brendon until he’s in the middle, brown eyes staring into Gabe’s face. 

Gabe reaches forward and draws Brendon closer. Frank scoots with him and stretches out an arm to slip fingers under the hem of Gabe’s black and green, plaid button down. Gabe lets one of his hands drift in the direction of Frank’s touch so he can wrap his fingers around Frank’s wrist, complete the circuit between the three of them. 

Kissing Brendon is natural. It’s like breathing or talking. Gabe doesn’t know where he’d be without these two and the unconventional relationship they brought with them that first mission. 

What started out as a conversation that Gabe thought was meant lightly had turned into a request that he join them. It wasn’t a joke or a way to play off their reasons for snooping around. Frank and Brendon wanted him and not just for a little bit of fun. Gabe couldn’t turn that down, even if the timing was a bit off. He still doesn’t regret it, saying yes has been one of the few good things to have happened to him. 

Gabe’s never going to bad mouth that. Not ever. 

*~*~*~* 

Once they know what to look for, it isn’t hard to scout for places Roliki would use for laying low with his spoils of a plan well executed. Brendon’s dug enough to know that most of the casualties where the higher ups in the Nevada office. Five agents were taken, all spies with impressive files. Roliki either wants to convert them or torture them until they crack and give him more information. Information that could lead him into the other agent offices spread out across the continent. 

If that happens, there’s going to be a problem. That means, once again, they’re not just going in to get people out. They also have to make sure there’s no reasonable way for the bad guys to cause more trouble. Gabe should be used to this by now, as often as it happens, but it still amazes him every time they have to play clean up crew as well as Search and Rescue. 

Spencer’s spread out one of his maps across the grubby carpet. He and Brendon are debating the places that would be best for hiding. Sometimes, Gabe forgets that Brendon’s from the desert, not out north where they live. Of course, he has outdated knowledge on the landscape, but it’s still enough to brainstorm with Spencer. 

Frank’s using the far right corner of the map to scribble quantity equations across the heavy weight of the paper with a red pen he keeps having to steal back from Brendon every time he snatches it from Frank’s fingers to circle a point on the map. Gabe’s been interjecting comments here and there while going through their supplies for essentials. He keeps eyeing the rope and debating if they might need it or not.

“Samwise Gamgee is always right, Gabe. Just pack the damn rope. It’ll make you feel better.”

Gabe turns to stare at Spencer. He’s the last person Gabe was expecting to make a sarcastic _literary_ comment, considering how guarded he can be, especially since things went pear up with the Nevada office. Brendon stops trying to make grabby hands for Frank’s pen again and starts to laugh, enthused by Spencer’s outburst.

“Good one, Spence.”

They settle back into choosing places to look into with the mood lighter than it was before. Things have been feeling oppressive. It’s been three days, and the longer they take, the worse everything gets. The ratio of them having people coming for them gets higher as the chances of the kidnapped agents still being alive drops lower and lower. 

*~*~*~* 

“SHIT, SHIT, SHIT...”

Brendon’s cursing to Gabe’s left, trying his best to reroute the wiring he’s digging into. Spencer and Frank are several rooms down, collecting the agents they can reach. Margo is dead, so that leaves Spencer’s two friends, Phrill, and Abrams to extract. Brendon’s working on disabling the security and operating systems so nothing in the building is salvageable. Gabe’s watching Brendon’s back so no one gets a jump on them. 

Several of Roliki’s men are scattered across the compound - dead - from where Gabe, Spencer or Frank, and occasionally Brendon, had to silence them. The moment Roliki or Zelly notices, things will get a lot harder. There’s the press of smooth metal against his temple, and Gabe lets his gun go lax in his hands.

“Tsk, tsk. Agent Saporta, I’m disappointed in you. Not even knocking on the front door to say _hello_. If you had a problem with some of my friends, you should have just said so. Brendon, it’s nice to see you again.”

Gabe doesn’t need to turn to see Zelly standing behind him, wide grin stretching across his face. The guy must have used a different route to sneak up on them. All Gabe can do is watch Brendon’s fingers stutter and stop when Zelly tells him to quit rummaging through the wiring. 

They’re ordered to their feet. Brendon clutches his messenger bag to his chest, his gun left on the ground, kicked next to Gabe’s. The moment they start walking, Gabe feigns a stumble and crashes into Zelly. 

They both go down. Hard.

Zelly pulls a knife and tries to gut him, only to be yanked backward - off Gabe - as the dark red, poly-nylon rope Gabe had added to Brendon's bag on a whim is wrapped around his neck. 

Brendon doesn’t have enough upper body strength to strangle Zelly, even if Gabe’s been teaching him all the tricks. It is, however, enough of a distraction for Gabe to break free and help Brendon finish the job. 

When they’re certain he has stopped breathing, Zelly’s dead weight drops to the dusty floor with a heavy thud. Brendon slowly returns to the wiring and pulls out his handheld with shaky fingers while Gabe bends to pick up their dropped guns.

Once Brendon’s done bypassing the systems, they pack up and slip down the hallway unnoticed. 

*~*~*~* 

They round a corner and gunfire starts. Gabe ducks and drags Brendon down with him. Frank runs into them and turns to shoot behind them. When Gabe’s able to glance around and pinpoint where Spencer is, there are three people with him, not four. Two guys and one woman.

“You okay, Frankie?”

Frank nods before returning fire.

“Phrill was a lost cause. Roliki isn’t here. Didn’t see Zelly.”

Gabe lines up a shot and fires. The guy shooting at them goes down, and they run to hide behind the next corner. 

“Zelly won’t be a problem. We just need a way out.” Gabe’s voice is loud even though their PSB’s continue to function properly, drowning out the noise.

Brendon wraps a hand around the hem of Gabe’s shirt and tugs him to the left. A bullet embeds in the wall right next to his head the same instant Spencer fires a shot ,and the guy drops. 

As soon as they make it out, Frank starts flipping switches on detonators. He spent the last day using scrap parts Brendon brought along with them and some of his own supply of incendiary ingredients to make charges, just in case. They haven’t talked about blowing the building up, but Gabe’s down for that. In for a penny, in for a mother fucking pound. They’re already going to be fired so hard their asses are going to hurt from the boot. 

Why not make sure M.A.N.D.I. gets crippled in the process? 

*~*~*~* 

The Nevada office isn’t too happy to see them. Ross was insistent, though, that he and Walker be dropped off there. Spencer wasn’t inclined to tell Ross _no_ , and Gabe had quirked an eyebrow at that but hadn’t said anything. 

It’s hard to realize that it’s been less than seven days since the attack happened. Part of the building is boarded up, and people keep streaming in and out of the front doors. It shouldn’t be such a shock to see it still in shambles. A day and a half after, they had the computer systems back up and a partial camera feed set up again. If they hadn’t, Brendon wouldn’t have been able to find what he was looking for as quickly as he did.

The temporary, Acting Head of Department meets them on the front steps. She tracks her agents’ movements with a critical gaze for several moments before snapping her attention to Gabe, Brendon, and Frank. 

“I assume you’re the agents Director Wentz was calling about days ago? His office has already been contacted, and there’s a flight scheduled in the morning to take you home. We do ask that you leave all Department property, and your weapons with us, though. All articles will be shipped back to your office in a timely manner.” 

She turns from Gabe to stare at Spencer.

“Agent Smith, I’d like to formally offer you your old position for the time being. I know you left willingly over personal issues. However, right now, we could use all the agents at our disposal who are familiar with our operations. When the Department is re-settled, we can discuss your possible return to the east coast.” 

Ross looks intense and approving, as does Walker. Gabe wants to say something, perhaps ask Spencer to came back with them now instead of possibly returning to an S&R team that ceases to exist. He fits with them, and Gabe doesn’t want to give that up, regardless of what the future might hold. 

Brendon bounces nervously on the balls of his feet. Frank curls fingers around his wrist to calm him. It’s the most physical contact any of them have shown around an authority figure, other than Pete. 

The lady doesn’t notice; she’s too caught up in nodding when Spencer agrees to stay and help them rebuild. Because, of course, Spencer would agree to go back to his former office now that his relationship with his childhood best friend seems to be mending. Plus, it’s fucking better than being arrested over turning rogue. Hopefully, that doesn’t mean he’ll be gone forever. Maybe he’ll drop in to see how well they’re doing being split up back home in the Strategies and Logistics Department. 

Gabe’s not sure that _will_ happen, but it’s looking more and more likely than jail time. Doubly so if the Vegas Acting Head puts a good word in for them.

_If._

Well, Gabe can hope.

*~*~*~* 

This motel room isn’t run down or falling apart. It’s not the Ritz either, but it’s a far cry from what they’re used to. Frank sets down their remaining duffel on the comforter of the single bed. The canvas doesn’t sink into the mattress, and the comforter is thick enough that it easily absorbs the weight. 

Gabe can’t stop staring at the bag. It’s all that’s left of their traveling supplies. All their mission gear was confiscated, including Brendon’s personal computer. It’s not standard protocol to have their tools and weapons taken from them, but then, what they did wasn’t exactly normal procedure. 

Agents don’t disregard orders and expect things to go a certain way. Sure, they rescued people, good agents who would have been killed like their colleagues if they hadn’t shown up when they did. 

Hell, none of the Departments were even looking into M.A.N.D.I. as the cause for the crime. Roliki wasn’t going to issue any statements until after the last agent was tortured and killed. Or at least, that’s the conclusion Gabe’s come to after hearing Ross tell Spencer what happened while they were prisoners.

The Acting Director of the Nevada office, Margret Dowery, booked their room for them. It’s almost as if she’s saying _thanks_ in the only way she knows how. She could have just as easily made them stay at the Department office, toting charred scraps out of damaged rooms, or pushed them into a cramped holding area to sleep across the uncomfortable chairs. Instead, she’s put them up in this decent room with a giant bed positioned against the far wall. 

It’s not their bed at home, but it’s not shabby either.

Gabe wonders if Pete told her anything that might have clued her into booking them a single. There’s no way she saw Frank touch Brendon earlier, and it’s not like they were leaning against each other, supporting their collective weight amongst each other. So either she’s extremely observant and has decided not to tattle about their relationship, or Pete told her and asked for discretion. Bringing some of her agents back alive probably helps in that matter, if she was already in the know. Gabe’s not going to worry about it. Much.

“Christ, we’re going to be in so much trouble.” Brendon wraps his arms around himself when Gabe cuts his gaze from their duffel to look at him. 

Frank leans his weight against Gabe’s side and sighs. “We may as well just go in and quit after they take our statements. Anything else, and they’ll have Pete’s head on a platter over insubordinate employees. If that happens, the whole Department’s doomed.”

Gabe nods. It’s really the only option they have. Saving the day doesn’t gloss over the fact that they did this without permission. Not to mention the fact that they killed people and burned down a building. It doesn’t matter that the dead people were bad men and women or that the building was a security risk. 

All that matters is that they did what they did. 

Even if they’re re-assigned to different departments, Owens will be on Pete’s ass for letting them get away with murder. However, resigning will mean a fuckton of paperwork: gag orders and confidential paperwork saying they can’t breathe a word about the Department or their former jobs.

It’s also going to mean they’ll have a shit time finding stable jobs. Gabe doesn’t care. They can deal. It’s not like he doesn’t have money to cushion them until they’re settled.

“Why not? It’s not like we’re split up if we’re not working together. Right?” Brendon’s voice sounds thin and lost. 

He’s curling into himself while still standing as upright as possible. He looks thinner and smaller without his messenger bag slung against his side. Gabe’s taking a step forward before he even registers that he’s moving.

“Fucking hell, Bren. I’m not letting go of you. Not you or Frank. Not if I can help it.” His words seem heavy to his ears, some emotion Gabe can’t really define coiling around the letters to make his voice almost shaky and deep. 

Frank wraps a hand around his wrist, his grip tighter than a noose. Brendon curls twitching fingers into the fabric of Gabe’s shirt and clings like a little kid afraid their parents are going to leave them forever.

Fuck, Gabe can’t deal with this. He’s not Brendon’s parents, who kicked him out over not sharing their religious beliefs. Just the thought of pushing Brendon away for any reason makes him shudder. Gabe’s so fucking screwed because he can’t live without these two, even if they have to work shitty graveyard shifts at convenience stores just to survive. He’ll do it. There’s not any other option left for him. 

“If you think I’m going to walk away, Bren, then you’re crazier than I thought. And before you pull away, that includes you as well, Gabe. Fuck, I’m in a relationship with idiots.” Frank makes a disgruntled noise before raising his other hand to cup Brendon’s jaw. 

Brendon leans into the touch and presses his lips to the inside of Frank’s wrist. Suddenly, it’s like all their pent up anxiety and frustration break free,and they don’t even make it to the bed before they’re crashing into each other. 

Somehow, Gabe ends up with his back pressing hard against the side of the bed, his legs stretched out in front of him while Brendon climbs into his lap and wraps an arm around his neck to keep them both steady so he can kiss Gabe with everything he has. Frank’s to his right, one hand sliding under the back of Gabe’s shirt while the other creeps up to tangle in Brendon’s hair. 

He should stop this, or they’re going to have sex against the side of the bed without even fully undressing. Fuck, it’s only been four or five days, but they haven’t been able to touch much since then, and Gabe’s already wound up. It won’t take a lot to push him over the edge. 

Brendon pulls away to catch his breath, and his fingers fumble with the buttons of Gabe’s shirt. Frank presses his nose into the curve of Gabe’s neck and bends to nip at his shoulder, around the collar of his shirt. Brendon only gets four buttons undone before giving up and licking at the strip of skin peeking out from under the fabric. His hand wanders down to Gabe’s pants, and he puts enough pressure into his touch that Gabe bucks into it without meaning to. 

Frank sucks on the skin he’s been nipping at then pulls away. Not enough to bruise, just in case. “Fuck, not going to last long. This is ridiculous. We’re not fifteen year olds.”

Brendon giggles into Gabe’s shoulder and pops the button to his jeans. Frank nudges Brendon’s shoulder with the palm of his hand, then pulls him into a deep kiss that lasts for what feels like forever. Seeing that never gets old. 

When they pull away, Frank leans his head against Brendon’s shoulder and whispers something into his ear that Gabe can’t make out.

Suddenly, there’s no weight in his lap when Brendon slides away to mirror Frank’s position at Gabe’s right. Frank kisses the right side of his neck, and Brendon does the same at his left. Their hands spider walk down the sides of his shirt before rucking up the material. Everything’s so in tandem that Gabe starts to forget who’s who.

It’s an intense feeling. 

There’s the sensation of nails biting into the tender skin around his hip, and that has to be Frank because he always likes to play rough. Someone starts tugging on his jeans, and that has to be Brendon because he laughs, the sound puffing moistly against Gabe’s neck. 

Gabe does his best to wriggle his hips. Frank scratches his nails from Gabe’s hip across his stomach the same time Brendon slips his hand past Gabe’s underwear to wrap fingers around his dick. The position isn’t exactly the best, and Brendon can’t really do much more than apply pressure and squeeze. That doesn’t mean it’s not enough, and it doesn’t take long for Gabe to tense and come. Hopefully he still has a clean pair of underwear in their duffel because he’d rather not be uncomfortable later.

Frank slides fingers through his hair and kisses him hard. When they pull away, Brendon tugs his hand out of Gabe’s boxers and starts to lick his fingers clean. Goddamn, but that’s hot, and Gabe’s dick tries to twitch. Too bad he’s not that young anymore and can’t get it up again this soon after coming. Frank makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, and not even a second later, Brendon’s tackled to the beige carpet. 

Brendon moans, and his fingers scramble across Frank’s back until he can get a good hold on Frank’s shirt. They’re kissing like that’s the only thing they know how to do, and Gabe can’t stop staring. Brendon bucks up, trying to find some sort of friction to work with, and Frank just presses him harder into the carpet before sitting up and tugging Brendon with him.

Once they’re both sitting upright and next to Gabe again, Frank pushes Brendon against Gabe’s chest and tugs on Brendon’s purple tee until it’s pushed up under his arms. Gabe lifts Brendon’s arms, and Frank pulls the shirt off. It gets tossed somewhere, and Gabe could care less where it ends up, especially when Brendon tips his head back to rest on Gabe’s shoulder. They’ll find the shirt in the morning. 

It doesn’t take long for Gabe and Frank to turn Brendon into nothing but a collection of gasps and breathy _oh gods._ When he comes, Frank swallows his own name as Brendon says it. Brendon slumps against Gabe’s chest and tries to catch his breath. 

Frank tugs Gabe into a desperate kiss. He’s still on edge, and Brendon, still between them, puts his hands on Frank’s shoulders and pushes him back enough that Brendon can tiredly slip out of Gabe’s lap. Once he’s free, he places the palm of his right hand against the center of Frank’s chest until he falls against Gabe. Together, he and Brendon get Frank’s jeans tugged down.

Brendon doesn’t waste time after that and drops until he’s laying on the floor with his head resting against Frank’s left thigh, his nose pressing into the fabric of Frank’s underwear. One of his hands using Gabe’s right thigh for purchase while the other slips into Frank’s underwear to pull out his dick. 

Frank’s too wound up to last long. Brendon swallows when he’d done and sleepily rolls until he’s on his knees in front of them. The kiss is at all different kinds of an awkward angle, but they make it work. They should take turns showering since the motel shower isn’t big enough to fit the three of them, or even two of them, at that. 

Instead of making his way to the bathroom, Brendon rocks backwards onto his heels and stands. Frank follows and grabs the handles of their single duffel from the middle of the bed. It gets set on the other side of the night stand so no one trips over it during what’s left of the night. Gabe gets up and tugs the heavy comforter off the bed. Once all that’s left is the crisp white linen of the sheet, he stops.

Undressing the rest of the way is a quick affair. After that, Frank tugs down the sheet and slides in first. Brendon pushes at Gabe’s shoulders until he falls onto the bed. Looks like he’s in the middle tonight. 

Brendon climbs under the sheet after him and curls his arms around Gabe’s waist. Frank scoots closer and laces his arms around Brendon’s. Gabe’s caught between the two of them, like they’re trying to anchor him to them the only way they know how. 

In the morning, the motel’s clock will wake them. It was the first thing they set when checking out the space, just in case they got busy and forgot. Thankfully, they thought ahead, even if they didn’t make it to the bed like Gabe was hoping. 

Once they wake up, they’ll shower and dress in whatever they have that’s the cleanest. Then they’ll have to wait for a car from the Nevada office to pick them up so they don’t miss their flight. When they get home, they’ll formally resign from their positions and pack up their shit. 

After that, Gabe has no clue what they’ll do, but at least they’ll be together. That’s all that counts.


End file.
